The Pacific

by Peter Watt

  Jack wanted to protest but could hear the determination in the American officer’s voice. ‘Only if I’m capable of walking out,’ Jack said. ‘Otherwise, you leave me to cope with any Japs coming my way. I promise you they won’t take me alive.’

  For a moment Nixon was silent in the dark. ‘A deal,’ he finally replied. ‘Do you think it is safe to radio your boys?’

  Jack considered the question. ‘Yeah, better send them a sitrep.’

  Contact was made with PIB HQ and the message relayed. After a short period of time a message was returned, with the coordinates of what was considered the safest leg back to camp. Being an aviator, Nixon was a brilliant navigator – even in the jungle, in the dark. With map and compass he plotted the track home.

  Jack was able to get to his feet and walk with the aid of a crutch made from a sapling. Slowly the patrol made its way through the pitch darkness of the jungle, ever alert to a possible ambush. But Jack’s men were born to this country and their skills ensured that when the sun eventually rose, they were already at the base of the tall ridges and on the kunai-covered plains between the rugged rainforest-covered hills.

  As they trudged on their course, hacking their way through the long grass, they were surprised by a section of PIB soldiers rising up to greet them. They were home, and within hours Jack was on a medical evacuation flight to Port Moresby, on the other side of the Owen Stanley Ranges.

  Lieutenant Nixon was also on the flight and his stretcher was below Jack’s on the Douglas. They shared the sturdy aircraft with PIB soldiers suffering from scrub typhus, malaria, dengue fever and war wounds. Jack’s body was covered in bandages and he felt like an Egyptian mummy.

  The aircraft dropped down onto the coast and into the busy Port Moresby airfield, coming to a halt at the end of the strip, next to a row of Kittyhawk fighters displaying Australian markings. The door was flung open and the hot tropical air filled the interior of the transport plane. RAAF nurses wearing trousers and shirts were waiting as each litter was brought out onto the tarmac.

  When Jack’s litter was manhandled onto the back of a modified jeep he looked up into a beautiful familiar face staring at him with wide-eyed concern.

  ‘Hello, Sister Cain,’ he said, half-grinning and half-grimacing with pain. ‘Has my lady seen my son lately?’

  Megan Cain turned her head to issue orders for a drip to be inserted into Jack’s arm and then took his hand. ‘I haven’t seen Lukas in five months,’ she said. ‘But I certainly hope he’s in better condition than his father right now. You should both be out of this bloody war.’

  Jack saw that Megan was forcing back tears and he regretted his cavalier question.

  Soon he was inside a Nissan hut in the military hospital, with slowly sweeping ceiling fans stirring the hot air to a slightly more comfortable temperature. Megan was still by his side, administering a shot of morphine to him. Lukas was a bloody lucky man to have the love of such a woman, Jack thought as he drifted off into oblivion.

  *

  Megan visited Jack every day and together they reassured each other that Lukas would return soon. Many times Megan chided Jack for remaining on the front lines when he was far too old to be a soldier. But Jack would remind her that he was fighting for his homeland – Papua and New Guinea. Megan would sigh and pat his hand before moving on to her next patient.

  On the fifth day Jack’s wounds were healing well enough to allow him to get out of bed and sit in the garden cordoned by bright bougainvillea bushes. He could feel the stiffness in his left side from the drying wounds but was otherwise feeling much better.

  ‘Hello, Sergeant Kelly,’ a voice said and Jack turned with a wince to see the American pilot resplendent in a crisp, clean uniform affixed with his shiny pilot’s wings.

  ‘Mr Nixon,’ Jack said, holding out his hand ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to say goodbye,’ Nixon said, shaking Jack’s hand. ‘I’ll be rejoining my outfit tomorrow.’

  ‘I know, you can’t tell me where,’ Jack said.

  ‘It’s crazy, but General MacArthur doesn’t seem to trust our Aussie allies,’ Nixon said, taking off his peaked cap and wiping sweat from his face with the back of his hand. ‘I can tell you that it won’t be far from here. Maybe no further than Moresby airfield,’ he said with a knowing smile.

  Jack nodded and for a while the two men gazed out at the garden filled with butterflies and tiny birds. It was so peaceful that the war could have been over, but both men carried the memories of deadly jungles and hostile blue skies.

  ‘What are you going to do when they let you out?’ Nixon asked, breaking the silence.

  ‘First thing I’m going to do is head for the nearest pub, and if you bloody Yanks haven’t drunk the place dry, I will.’

  Nixon chuckled. ‘Not enough of us left to do that,’ he said. ‘Most of the boys are up north, liberating the Philippines. I expect I’ll be posted that way soon enough myself. Are you going to return to your PIB boys?’

  Jack stared at a butterfly flitting between the big, colourful flowers of a hibiscus shrub. ‘I promised myself that I would see out this war until the last Jap was either dead or gone from my country.’

  ‘Australia?’ Nixon asked in surprise.

  ‘No, this place here – New Guinea,’ Jack responded. ‘This is where I’ve lived since I was a young man prospecting for gold. This is where I brought up my son. My wife is buried here.’

  Nixon shifted awkwardly in his chair and Jack wondered what the American’s home was like. Probably a far cry from this land of swamps, jungles and impassable mountains, all crawling with every tropical disease known to man.

  ‘Well, I’ll have to say goodbye for the moment, Sergeant Kelly,’ Nixon said, rising and replacing his cap. ‘The good news is that my fiancée has cabled to say that she will be flying out to cover the backwash of the war over here. Kind of pleased she has opted to remain away from the European front.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that too, Lieutenant Nixon,’ Jack said. ‘I hope it all goes well for you both.’

  ‘When she arrives you’ll have to meet her,’ Nixon said, taking a pair of dark sunglasses from his shirt pocket and slipping them over his eyes. ‘I’m sure you’ll like her.’

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ Jack said politely as Nixon shook his hand goodbye.

  ‘So long,’ Nixon said. ‘Until next time.’

  Jack watched the tall American stride away with the jaunty walk that seemed a characteristic of these easygoing American allies. He hoped the war would be over soon, and Nixon and that girl of his could settle down and raise children in peace.

  *

  Petty Officer First Class Fuji Komine watched the execution impassively. It was not the first time he had seen Lieutenant Yoshi behead a helpless civilian with his samurai sword.

  ‘Tell the villagers that this is the treatment they can expect if they betray us,’ Lieutenant Yoshi called to Fuji as the head of the village leader rolled away from his lifeless body. Women wailed and children cried, while the men stood in silence.

  Fuji obeyed his order and addressed the inhabitants of this small village deep in the rainforest of northern New Guinea. He accepted that terror was an effective means of keeping control over the village where they had established a base of operations, but it was the fact that the commanding officer was the man who had murdered Fuji’s own woman years earlier that left the bitter taste in his mouth.

  Fuji could see the frightened acceptance in the villagers’ eyes, but from his experience growing up in Papua he also knew that they would turn on them at the first opportunity. This was a temporary reign of terror.

  ‘Now, tell them what we have for those who help the Emperor,’ Lieutenant Yoshi said, cleaning the blood-spattered blade on the shirt of the headless body at his feet.

  Petty Officer Oshiro stepped forward with a metal ammunition case containing silver coins. He marched to the centre of the clearing between the palm frond and timber huts adjoin
ing plots of vegetables. Pigs rooted amongst rubbish, and skinny, scabby dogs began to sniff around the body, lapping at the blood seeping from the exposed neck.

  Oshiro stepped back to allow his commanding officer to scoop out a handful of Australian shillings. Fuji thought that the coinage was surely an admission that they were losing the war. The Japanese currency of occupation no longer seemed to appeal to the native people, as word spread from valley to valley that the Japanese were slowly being forced back home and that the Europeans were returning to once again assume control. Very soon the kiaps – patrol officers – would be back to dispense justice, and the Japanese occupiers would be gone.

  Oshiro joined Fuji and behind them stood the other twelve tough marine troops sent on this mission; with their bayonet-tipped rifles they were a formidable presence.

  ‘I hated travelling here in that submarine,’ Oshiro whispered to Fuji. ‘But this cursed place is worse than being stuck inside the sub.’

  Fuji was about to say something when he caught Lieutenant Yoshi’s eye. With chilling certainty he knew he was going to be singled out for punishment. Lieutenant Yoshi strode towards him, trailing his sword.

  ‘Petty Officer Fuji,’ he screamed into Fuji’s face. ‘Did I give permission to speak?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Fuji answered dutifully, averting his eyes. The vicious back-handed slap across his face almost sent him reeling but he stood his ground, blood trickling from his nose.

  ‘You are not a true Japanese warrior!’ Lieutenant Yoshi shouted. ‘You are a product of the decadent west and not to be trusted. As punishment for your insolence, you will remain standing to attention here until I give you permission to return to your billet.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Fuji replied, tasting the blood in his mouth from where his teeth had cut through his lip. He accepted that Lieutenant Yoshi was enforcing the iron discipline of the Japanese armed forces, but he could not accept the insult of his lack of loyalty to the Emperor. Fuji knew, however, that there was nothing he could do to redress this slur on his character and so he stood to attention as the villagers looked on, watching curiously until they were sent back to their duties in the gardens and huts.

  Fuji remained standing to attention under the hot sun until it grew dark and Oshiro came to him with a canteen of water and sympathetic words, saying that their commanding officer had given permission for Fuji to stand down.

  As Fuji greedily gulped the water he recalled happier times working alongside his father, a boat builder, and living near Port Moresby, in the Central Province of Papua. It was true he had suffered the discrimination of the Europeans, but they had left his family alone to prosper.

  Imperial headquarters constantly informed them all that it was impossible for the Japanese to lose the war. But lately, rumours had started to spread that they might have to sacrifice their lives to force the Allies into a position to concede a treaty. This was not considered defeat but simply a means of keeping the barbarians off the sacred soil of Japan and retaining the Sun God Emperor.

  Maybe it was true that Fuji had been too exposed to the decadent western ways, because he could see his country really was beaten and that the Europeans would not rest until they had achieved a crushing victory over Japan. He knew that there would be no armistice or treaty – just total defeat and humiliation.

  ‘Here, drink this,’ Oshiro said, producing a flask.

  Fuji took a swig and felt the fiery rice wine start to ease away his hurt. ‘How did you get the sake?’ he asked.

  ‘The commander will not miss a bit out of the barrel,’ Oshiro chuckled. ‘I think this whole mission is a pile of buffalo manure. Our navy has dumped us in the middle of nowhere with the idea that Lieutenant Yoshi knows what he is doing. We have been sent along to make it look good, when we all know this war is lost.’

  Fuji gripped Oshiro’s wrist. ‘Be silent,’ he hissed. ‘If you are overheard, you will be executed as defeatist.’

  ‘Do you truly think that we will win?’ Oshiro asked sadly. ‘I keep dreaming that I am back in my village, watching my wife and children in the fields. I hear the chatter of the gossip by the old people and wish I was home with them. I beg of you, if I die and you do not, go back to my home and tell my family how much I loved them.’

  Fuji saw that his friend had tears running down his cheeks. As tough as he was, Oshiro yearned for peace. Fuji knew the only peace they would experience would be the long sleep of death.

  *

  Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’ drifted to Ilsa from a radio in the bar on the beach. For days now she had been stuck in Honolulu in the Hawaiian Islands. Her flight to Australia had been cancelled for no apparent reason, and here she was in limbo in a place most people would give their right arm to be.

  Ilsa lifted her martini and silently toasted those old friends and colleagues who would not see Christmas this year, white or otherwise.

  She had idled away her time in Honolulu, between island bars filled with rowdy servicemen and her hotel overlooking the beach. Several men had attempted to woo her but she was only interested in one man.

  She and Clark had first met early in the war when she had been sent to an airfield outside New York to file a story about bomber crews training for service overseas. She had been assigned a handsome young bomber pilot whose easy smile caught her attention immediately. When he removed his sunglasses she was mesmerised by his sparkling eyes and, from then on, she had been smitten with Lieutenant Clark Nixon. Over drinks in the officers’ club she learned that he was the son of a cattle rancher, but he had been smart enough to draw out her story too. Up until then, Ilsa had found that most men simply wanted to impress her with their achievements and wealth, yet this man seemed interested in her as a person. Later she learned that he came from a very wealthy family and would one day inherit a cattle empire. Before he was shipped out, she was able to obtain leave to travel to Clark’s family home in Montana, where she was seduced by the rugged beauty of the vast plains and mountains. She had been treated with great warmth by Clark’s parents and for the first time in her life had a sense of belonging to the US.

  Ilsa had had no letters from Clark since well before he went missing. She knew that her moving from one place to another did not help the mail system, but she still felt frustrated and disappointed.

  Each day she would enquire with the armed forces movements section as to whether she had a berth on one of the many aircraft flying in and out of Hickham Field. With each no she would return to her hotel room, pick up her copy of John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and head to the beach, and then, when the sun went down, she would drink and talk with the men returning from the bloody battle fronts of the Pacific.

  On Christmas Eve a parcel of letters was delivered to her room, redirected from the New York office. Her heart lifted at the sight of Clark’s familiar handwriting. Her fingers trembled as she attempted to shuffle the letters into chronological order according to the postmarks. Then she sat down by the window, a balmy breeze blowing in off the water, and opened the first letter. Tears flowed as she read and reread each word of endearment. Clark described his rescue, adding the name of the Aussie PIB sergeant who had saved him from certain death.

  Ilsa froze. Surely not! Jack Kelly! It was possible there was more than one Jack Kelly in New Guinea, but Clark’s description of this tough old soldier sounded just like her father.

  Ilsa stared out at the ocean. How was it possible that her own father had saved the life of the man she loved most in the world?

  She put down the letter and poured herself a glass of bourbon, then sat down to continue reading.

  Ilsa had never mentioned Jack Kelly to Clark; it hadn’t seemed important even when she had lost both her mother and her wonderful stepfather. Both had died of natural causes and, on her deathbed, Ilsa’s mother had confessed that Gerhardt Stahl was not Ilsa’s biological father.

  But now she felt a growing need to seek out and connect with her biological father and half-brother as th
ey were all the blood family she had left.

  Ilsa continued reading the letters until the sun went down and the town came alive with the noise of servicemen seeking a good time on this night of peace and goodwill to all men. So many people had assured her the war would be over by Christmas; how wrong they’d all been.

  The Germans had mounted a massive counteroffensive through the Ardennes Forest in Belgium, and the Allies, particularly the Americans, were reeling from the massive onslaught of armour, artillery and infantry that had rallied against them. Ilsa cursed not being with the troops to cover their stand against the German Army. She had warned the American public in her articles that the Germans would fight on and for that she had been chastised by an overconfident military. Ilsa’s predictions had proven correct when a massive German Army burst out of the supposedly impassable Ardennes Forest, and pushed back the American Army almost to the point of defeat. It had only been the courageous resistance of small pockets of American soldiers and the fortification of the town of Bastogne that had held the onslaught to a standstill. But being proven right had not saved Ilsa from being discredited by the arrogant higher military headquarters that had stated the war would be over by Christmas 1944.

  Ilsa heard a knock at her door. Goodness, was it that late? She had lost track of time and forgotten all about the arrangement she’d made to go out with Ed Self, the pilot who had been Clark’s best friend back in Montana.

  Captain Ed Self held a bouquet of tropical flowers in his hand and greeted her with a broad smile. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked, eyeing Ilsa still attired in a light sundress. He was as tall as Clark and handsome too; in fact, the two men could have passed for brothers.

  ‘Just give me a moment,’ Ilsa answered, opening the door for him.

  ‘I thought these might bring a little colour to your world,’ he said cheerfully, looking around for something to place the flowers in. ‘I also brought them as a bribe to get you to come to our Christmas party at the club.’