The Pacific

by Peter Watt

  *

  Jack found his son sitting on a case of .303 ammunition. Supplies had been offloaded onto a small beach adjoining a mangrove swamp, and the cases of food, ammunition and medical supplies were being carried by New Guinean porters along the same track Jack had used to reach the coast.

  Lukas was flipping through a sheaf of order forms, ticking off his cargo. He glanced up and when he saw his father he broke into a broad smile.

  ‘Hello, Dad, what the hell are you doing up here?’

  ‘Nice way to greet your father,’ Jack replied, crushing his son in a great hug. ‘I’ve come to requisition your boat – and your services – for the next couple of weeks.’

  Lukas looked curious. ‘Want a drink before you tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  Lukas stuffed the paperwork into a canvas pouch and led his father down the beach to a small dinghy. They climbed in and Lukas rowed out to the Riverside anchored a short distance offshore. Jack could see that the vessel’s heavy machine gun was manned by Mel Jones. Mel greeted Jack with a wave and helped them aboard.

  ‘Thought you were down in Moresby,’ the American grunted, thick cigar clenched between his nicotine-stained teeth.

  ‘Up here to do a job,’ Jack replied. ‘You and Lukas will be helping me.’

  The American shrugged and returned to scanning beach and sky for any possible threat. Lukas led his father below into the cramped cabin, where he reached for a bottle of gin. ‘No tonic, I’m afraid,’ he said, pouring generous tots into enamel mugs and passing one to Jack. ‘What’s this about requisitioning my boat?’

  Jack found a small seat on the starboard side whilst Lukas remained standing in the stifling cabin filled with charts, cooking utensils and medical supplies. A spent brass cartridge case rattled on the floor when the boat shifted slightly on the gentle tide.

  ‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ Jack said, taking a long swig of the fiery liquor. And for the next ten minutes he explained what had happened to Lukas’s half-sister, who was now a prisoner of the Japanese not far from where they presently sat. Lukas listened in silence and Jack could see a certain amount of hostility in his son’s face. This was not going as well as he’d hoped.

  ‘So I guess you expect me and my crew to risk our lives to rescue her,’ Lukas said when Jack had finished talking.

  Jack thumped his mug down beside him, spilling what was left. ‘Don’t be so bloody selfish, son!’ he exploded. ‘You might resent her, but she’s still your half-sister.’

  ‘We hardly know the woman, Dad. Yes, she’s your daughter, but you’re asking me to risk good men for her. You’re the one who’s being selfish.’ Lukas turned his back on his father and climbed out onto the deck.

  Jack could hear him stomping around up there and guessed that his son was torn by his strong sense of duty to his boat and crew, balanced against the life of just one woman – despite her blood connection to them both. Jack knew that in the brief time his son had known Ilsa, he had liked her and was not altogether being selfish. This was war and his son had been entrusted to keep his boat operational, and his crew alive. Jack knew that Lukas was putting duty before emotion for the moment. But he also knew his son and how he reacted to these situations. Jack let out a long breath of air, running his hand through his thick greying hair. Lukas would come to his senses; he just had to give him time.

  Sure enough, ten minutes later Lukas stepped into the cabin with an apologetic look on his face. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I guess I am a bit jealous that you’d go to all this effort for a daughter you barely know. But you’re right, we have to do something. If she is a prisoner of the Japs we can’t just leave her to her fate.’

  Jack could see the genuine concern in his son’s expression. ‘I’m not going to insist on you coming on this mission, Mel can handle the Riverside.’

  ‘Like hell he can,’ Lukas snapped. ‘Riverside is mine – and stays under my command. I am coming with you. Besides all else, Ilsa is my sister.’

  Jack placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘If anything happened to you, my world would cease to have any meaning,’ he said gently.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ Lukas answered. ‘It means a lot to me to hear you say that.’

  Jack was torn. He needed the Riverside to ship them up the coast, but he couldn’t deny that he would be putting his son in danger in his attempt to rescue a daughter he hardly knew. But he also knew that Lukas was a chip off the old block and would refuse to be left out of the mission.

  ‘We ship out before first light tomorrow,’ he said. He began rustling amongst charts stacked in a pile on the navigation table. When he found the one that he wanted he spread it out on the small table and both men leaned over it.

  ‘You will transport us to this point,’ Jack said, jabbing at a section of coastline. ‘From there I will take my section inland and hit the Jap village.’

  ‘How far inland?’ Lukas asked, peering at the chart.

  ‘According to one of my men, the camp is in a small village about half a mile from the shore. There are around a dozen Japs, most probably special troops left behind our lines to play havoc with our communication.’

  ‘How many am I transporting?’ Lukas asked.

  ‘A section,’ Jack answered and his son looked up at him with concern.

  ‘You will be facing what you think is a highly trained Jap platoon with just nine men.’

  ‘Ten, if you count me,’ Jack said.

  ‘God almighty!’ Lukas swore. ‘The Japs will eat you alive.’

  Jack thought his son was probably right; he knew Gari and his men were courageous, but courage was not enough when the odds were stacked against you.

  ‘Maybe I can scrounge up a bit of artillery to support you,’ Lukas said.

  ‘What have you got?’ Jack asked.

  ‘We have a three-inch mortar and bombs stashed away – I was supposed to drop them off a few days ago but they got forgotten somehow. We should be able to get some use out of that.’

  ‘Do you know how to use a mortar?’ Jack asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Yeah, you just drop the bombs down the hole at the top and make sure it’s pointed away from you,’ Lukas grinned.

  ‘You’ll have to bring it ashore and set it up so that it’s within range of the village,’ Jack said thoughtfully. ‘The three inch is limited in range. What kind of ammo?’

  ‘Mostly high explosive – and a few white phosphorus bombs. No illumination.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter – we’ll hit the Japs right on dawn,’ Jack said, pleased at the sudden but very significant addition to his armoury. Even if his son proved to be a lousy mortar man when the time came, which he doubted, the sound of bombs going off in the jungle would help confuse and rattle the enemy.

  ‘Well,’ Jack said, ‘the rest of the briefing can be done when we kick off tomorrow morning. I’ll bring the boys down the track and bivouac off the beach tonight. Maybe we can finish the bottle under the stars.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Lukas answered, staring down at the chart and already calculating what he would need to make the journey to the target and back again safely. They’d have to go carefully. Despite the Allies pushing the Japanese back to their homeland, the Imperial Japanese Navy was still a force to be reckoned with.

  *

  On the outskirts of Sydney a group of high-ranking military officers converged on a colonial farmhouse that had been requisitioned by the government for the duration of the war. The house was built of sandstone and its wide verandahs were covered in European ivy, providing welcome shade from the hot summer sun. The broad gravel driveway to the house was crowded with vehicles discreetly marked as military by their tactical signs. The men who had been chauffeured to the meeting place wore the uniforms of the United States and Britain. Amongst them was Captain Featherstone, who dismounted carrying a leather briefcase handcuffed to his hand. Neatly tucked in a holster under his shirt was a Webley Scott revolver.r />
  Featherstone was met by a smartly dressed United States Marine Corps sergeant who politely asked for his identification then checked his name against his list. The sergeant gave him a smart salute and ushered him into the house.

  Inside the meeting room, Featherstone was assailed by cigarette smoke and the smell of human sweat.

  ‘Hello, Featherstone,’ an American colonel said, passing him a crystal tumbler of gin and tonic. ‘I believe this is your drink.’ The man had solid shoulders and greying crewcut hair. He looked tough and Featherstone knew his looks were not deceiving. Colonel Ben Basham was a former USMC officer who had seen service in China before the war and was a veteran of the trenches in the last war. He was an officer in the American equivalent of Featherstone’s service – the Office of Strategic Studies.

  Featherstone accepted the drink and thanked the colonel. Without taking a sip he placed his drink on the great polished timber table at the centre of the room and unlocked the handcuff securing the briefcase. There were several men milling around talking in subdued voices.

  An American brigadier entered the room and called the meeting to order. Each man took his place at the table marked by a small sign indicating name, rank and position. The cards indicated that most of the men attending were officers of the American OSS or British SOE. Conspicuously absent was any Australian representation.

  Featherstone sat down next to Colonel Basham and the meeting got underway without the military formalities normally associated with briefings. Each man reported on his section’s mission, then a civilian with an American accent was introduced by the brigadier as a representative of President Roosevelt. He was a youngish man, prematurely balding and wearing thin-framed spectacles. He had about him the air of a Yale or Harvard graduate, and his expensive, well-tailored suit hardly had a sweat mark on it.

  He began by congratulating those at the table for their successes, which was only politic, Featherstone thought.

  ‘Now, to the matter of Ho Chi Minh in Indochina,’ he continued, looking directly at Featherstone. ‘Our president is impressed with Ho Chi Minh’s guerrilla war against the Japs. Mr Roosevelt is concerned that there is a rumour our French allies are plotting to dispose of him at the first possible opportunity. I hope that they are not getting any assistance from Mr Churchill.’

  Featherstone was aware that the eyes of the meeting were on him and was startled by the fact that the Americans would raise the matter in such a public way. He reached for his drink, taking a sip before replying.

  ‘Churchill has little interest in matters outside Burma, Malaya, Hong Kong and Singapore in this theatre of the war,’ Featherstone replied casually. ‘Whatever the French are scheming is a matter all their own. As you may well know, France is the traditional enemy of Britain.’

  There were several smiles and chuckles around the table. Featherstone was deliberately keeping the discussion as light as possible. The fact was, he knew that the French officer assigned to accompany the Australian officer into Saigon was an avowed enemy of Ho Chi Minh; he was quite capable of an assassination attempt.

  ‘You know that the president’s policy is of opposition to imperial interests in the Far East – after the war is won,’ the young man continued. ‘From what we know of Ho Chi Minh, he is more nationalist than communist. Some in our State Department feel he would be a helpful ally in this part of the world when the war is over.’

  Featherstone refrained from commenting that the Americans were preparing to reoccupy the Philippines, and that would put them on a par with any imperial ambition of Britain and France. The United States had, after all, seized the country from Spain at the turn of the century. ‘I must confess, sir, that we have not considered France’s position in respect to their imperial possessions before the war,’ he lied, ‘but I will look into it.’

  ‘So you are not aware of any plot to assassinate Ho Chi Minh?’ the American asked.

  Featherstone was not aware of any plot to kill the Vietnamese guerrilla leader, but it must surely be a possibility.

  ‘I am not aware of any plot that concerns our organisation to kill this Indochinese gentleman you regard so highly,’ he replied.

  The civilian representative nodded and turned his attention to another matter, leaving Featherstone to wonder why he had been confronted with the issue at all. As he sat through the meeting, he went over everything he knew about Karl Mann’s mission and found himself thinking that the man might be in even more danger than anyone had anticipated.

  When the meeting was over and the various representatives began dispersing to their cars, Featherstone approached Colonel Basham.

  ‘Ben, could I have a moment of your time?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Sure,’ Colonel Basham responded, waving off his driver, a pretty young woman in an army uniform. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘What is this about Ho Chi Minh and the French?’

  Basham glanced around to ensure that their conversation was not being overheard. ‘You guys are being used by de Gaulle and his cronies,’ he said. ‘The French only think of their own interests, you know that. We don’t trust de Gaulle. We figure if he ever gets into power he will run France as a dictator. I would watch your back, if I were you.’

  Featherstone nodded and watched as the American strode away to his car. He suspected that the Americans had somehow broken the strict security surrounding his operation to insert Karl Mann into Saigon. If so, Pham must be working with the Yanks. The British intelligence officer snapped the handcuff back on his wrist and walked to his car. He had the uneasy feeling that Karl Mann was as good as dead in an operation compromised almost before it had begun.

  ELEVEN

  Weeks had passed and Karl was bored. He had asked to accompany the Chinese guerrillas on raids and ambushes but had been firmly informed by the OSS and SOE officers that they had strict instructions to keep him out of harm’s way. So Karl had been forced to remain in camp and the only time he was able to leave was when the guerrillas changed location to avoid being discovered by the Japanese.

  However, during this time he had more contact with Pham, who uncharacteristically revealed his contempt for the Chinese partisans.

  ‘The Chinese have always been the enemy of my people,’ he spat, watching a Chinese guerrilla commander pass by. ‘They have always come from the north to invade my country but have always been forced back to their own lands. We will do the same to the Japanese.’

  ‘From what I have heard from our Yank OSS comrade here, a fellow by the name of Ho Chi Minh is doing a pretty good job of that,’ Karl reflected, leaning back against the log they shared and sipping his mug of tea. He was surprised at the dark look that came over the Frenchman’s face. ‘I gather you do not agree.’

  Pham glanced at Karl. ‘He is a communist and his Viet Minh will cause problems for us all – including you in the west. Do you know that Ho Chi Minh is not even his real name? He was born Nguyen That Thanh and decided to adopt his present name, as it means “the bringer of light”. There will be no light. He will only bring death to my country, but the Americans who support him cannot see that, despite the fact that Ho was a founding member of the French Communist Party back in the twenties and trained in Russia. Indochina belongs to France and while Ho Chi Min is alive we will not know peace.’

  Karl could hear the passion in Pham’s voice and began to sense that this little-known part of the world was facing even more turmoil than he had realised. ‘I get the impression that you would like to see the Viet Minh gone from your country,’ he said cautiously.

  Pham smiled. ‘As you will be glad to see your present Chinese comrades gone from Malaya. When the war is over they will oppose the return of the British.’

  ‘As I am an Australian, what the Poms do with Malaya after the war is really not much of a concern to me. But right now the communists are doing a bloody good job of harassing the Japs,’ Karl replied. ‘And that is all that counts at the moment.’

  ‘You are a true so
ldier, Major Mann,’ Pham said quietly. ‘You fight a tactical battle without considering the strategy of war. The Japanese have changed attitudes in Asia and you will not have peace when we defeat them. We will find ourselves fighting the very same people we are working alongside.’

  Karl had finished his tea and stood to return to his hut. ‘For a junior officer, you appear to have a very good insight into global strategy,’ he said, but Pham did not respond.

  The next day Pham informed Karl that the coded signal had come through – they would be leaving that night for the coast. From there they would take a fishing boat across the Gulf of Siam to the Mekong Delta.

  Karl made the rounds of the camp, bidding his fellow European officers farewell.

  ‘Keep your back to the wall,’ Captain David Carlton said, gripping him by the hand. ‘Don’t take your eye off that French bastard – I don’t trust him one little bit. Bon voyage and see you in the future for a cold beer.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Karl answered with a smile. ‘I have a feeling that the cold beer is a long way off yet.’

  That evening, Karl, dressed as a Malay peasant in sarong and straw hat, departed for the coast with Pham and a small escort party of Chinese guerrillas. Despite his disguise, Karl stood out because of his size. At least Pham’s disguise might fool a Japanese patrol, but not Karl’s.

  They travelled cautiously through the pitch darkness, the Chinese knowing their territory like the backs of their hands. In the morning they camped at what Pham said was only another day’s travel from a small Malay coastal village where a local Chinese merchant had arranged to provide a fishing boat to take them across the Gulf of Siam. Japanese naval patrols had dropped off due to the vigorous activity of American submarines attempting to strangle all supplies to Japan from their previously conquered territories.

  Little conversation passed between Pham and Karl. Captain Carlton’s warning echoed in Karl’s thoughts as he watched Pham move like a leopard amongst the Chinese he detested. Both men were armed, Karl with a revolver and Pham with a submachine gun. If it came to a shootout Karl was at a distinct disadvantage. As he sat with his back to a tree, eating his ration of rice, he tried to dismiss the crazy idea that Pham was a potential enemy. After all, they were both fighting the same enemy, albeit for different reasons.