by Peter Watt
Jack could not cry. He felt too numb. The mission had cost his son’s life and had failed to rescue his daughter. There were no words to describe the grief and regret he was feeling. Death had been his constant companion through two world wars, and during his time prospecting in the dangerous territories of hostile tribesmen of Papua and New Guinea, but he had never grown used to it. Even the pain he’d felt at the loss of his beautiful wife Victoria was nothing compared with his pain at losing his son and his daughter. He didn’t think he would be able to bear it.
When the bottle was empty, Jack stumbled onto the deck to find a place away from the crew. Gazing at the myriad stars now visible in the clear night sky, Jack was reminded of how he once used to sit on their trading schooner, teaching his son about the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere. Eventually the tears began to trickle down Jack’s cheeks and then turned into a flood as he sat sobbing quietly. A few hours before dawn, he stretched out on the deck and fell into an alcohol-troubled sleep, while the boat rolled and pitched on its voyage to safety.
When the sun rose on the next day, Jack reminded himself that he had a job to do, despite the terrible grief he knew he would have to conceal from those around him. The war was not over and the men in his command trusted him to keep them alive.
After five days at sea, Mel guided the boat into the bay It was busy with small craft unloading supplies for the forward sections of the PIB unit camped inland. Offshore sat a destroyer guarding the small fleet.
Jack knew that his wound was not healing well; his leg had swollen and he suspected the gunshot wound in his thigh was infected.
‘Got to get you to a hospital so that they can give you some of that new penicillin stuff,’ Mel said, examining the wound after the bandages had been removed.
‘Guess you could be right,’ Jack agreed, although he hardly cared what happened to him now.
Against his protests that he wished to walk, Jack was littered to the PIB encampment.
‘Too bloody sick, Sarn’t Kelly,’ Corporal Gari growled. ‘The boys will take you.’
When Jack was received by the unit regimental aid post, his name was recorded on a list of those requiring hospitalisation down south, and he was in luck, as a medevac flight was due out that afternoon.
Until then he lay on a cot inside a big tent with its sides rolled up to catch what little breeze there was wafting through the tall stands of kunai grass. Captain George Vincent stopped by to offer his condolences on the loss of Lukas. Jack appreciated the gesture but didn’t want to talk about his son’s death. Vincent, sensitive to that, talked instead about Jack’s mission.
‘Some of the papers your boys picked up were interesting,’ he said, taking a seat on a wooden crate beside Jack’s cot. ‘It appears that the mob you and your boys cleaned up were a special squad, sent behind our lines to secure a base for future operations. The intercepted Nip signals out of Rabaul confirm that your daughter was one of their captives. I’m so sorry that you missed her.’
‘It appears that a German sub was sent to pick her up,’ Jack said in a hoarse voice. He was starting to feel feverish; the throbbing in his leg seemed to be growing worse – it was incredibly painful now – and he was experiencing a great thirst. He unsuccessfully groped for a water canteen beside the field stretcher. ‘You don’t know if any of our intelligence people know anything about the Hun U-boat?’
‘Sorry, Jack,’ Captain Vincent replied, reaching down and passing the canteen to Jack. ‘That’s a navy matter and you would have to ask them.’
Just then a couple of PIB soldiers came to take Jack to the airfield. There was a tropical storm brewing over the mountains, and the pilots wanted to get going before the storm hit. Jack was loaded aboard the transport and, within hours, found himself under a creaking fan in a Port Moresby hospital.
He was examined by doctors, who immediately put him on a course of antibiotics, giving orders to have his wound cleaned and bandaged each day. By the second day the throbbing in his leg had subsided a little. He lay in his bed with its clean white sheets, thinking about his son. He hoped he would be able to rejoin his unit, but a visit from his commanding officer in Moresby soon quashed that idea – upon discharge he was to return to PIB HQ to resume his work in intelligence.
On the third evening, as the sun was setting, Jack noticed a couple of American air force officers strolling through the ward.
‘Hey, captains,’ he called, recognising their rank by the insignia on their chests. ‘You got a moment?’
The two officers approached Jack’s bed.
‘What can we do for you, Aussie?’ one of them asked. He was typical of the young, clean-cut and confident men who flew for the American air force.
‘I was just wondering if either of you two gentlemen know a Captain Clark Nixon; a flyer like yourselves.’
The two men glanced at each other before answering.
‘You knew Captain Nixon?’ one of them asked.
‘Yeah, a good bloke,’ Jack said and slowly became aware that the American officer had used the past tense. ‘Is he okay?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the American pilot replied. ‘Clark’s crate was shot up on a mission in the islands. No survivors.’
Jack sighed. The bloody war just kept taking people from him. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said and the pilot nodded.
But the second pilot turned to his comrade. ‘That was Grant’s crate, not Clark’s,’ he corrected. ‘Clark has been rotated stateside as an instructor, lucky son of a gun.’
Jack felt pleased to know that the young American officer was safely out of the front lines. He hoped that one day they might meet again. If all had gone well, Clark Nixon would have been his son-in-law. He would have to write to him today and tell him what had happened to Ilsa, why the mission had failed. He didn’t relish the prospect. ‘Thanks, cobber,’ Jack said, settling back against his clean sheets. ‘Keep your bloody heads down and good luck.’
The two pilots nodded their thanks and moved on, leaving Jack to reflect on how things might have been had it not been for the misfortunes of war that had cost him his beloved Victoria, his son and his daughter. For a moment he found his mind wandering to his best friend’s widow and her son – Karin and Karl Mann. They were as close to family as he had left now. Jack had always liked Karin, who had been like a second mother to Lukas when he was a young boy. He would go to Townsville in person to tell her about his death; she deserved that.
The overhead fan continued to creak, and the night was mixed with the moans of men reliving the hell of the jungles and the footsteps of a nurse gliding gently amongst them with soothing words. For Jack Kelly, no words or soothing touch could ever take away the pain.
FOURTEEN
By the end of a week in hospital Jack Kelly was becoming restless. He had received visits from old mates and his boss, Major Bill Travers, who assured him that his job in Port Moresby was just as important as that of being with the troops in the field. But the loss of Lukas had changed Jack. All he wanted was the chance to return to the fighting, to be absorbed by the comradeship of men facing danger on a daily basis. Nothing else seemed to matter.
One evening he saw Megan enter the ward. He was surprised to see her – he didn’t know she was back in Moresby. He struggled to sit up, then noticed that she had not seen him but had stopped by a bed at the end of the ward, occupied by an RAAF medical officer recovering from dengue fever. She sat herself in a chair by the patient’s bed and they began to talk; he could see that they were deep in conversation. After about half an hour, Megan rose, bent over and kissed the man.
‘Megan.’ Jack called softly and she turned, gave a big smile and hurried to his side.
‘Oh, Jack, it is good to see you again,’ she said.
‘It’s good to see you too,’ Jack responded.
Megan removed his medical records from the end of his bed and scanned them. ‘How does a man of your age get shot in the thigh?’ she frowned. ‘And how is Lukas?�
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‘You haven’t heard?’ Jack asked.
‘Heard what?’ Megan replied, still frowning.
‘Lukas was killed a couple of weeks ago or so, up north,’ Jack said.
Megan paled and seemed to sway on her feet. ‘Oh God, oh no,’ she moaned. ‘How could that happen?’
‘I got him killed,’ he said softly. ‘It was my fault. He was on a mission with me up north, and it all went wrong.’ He began to cry.
For a moment Megan looked too shocked to speak; then she reached out to wipe away the tears running down his cheeks. ‘Jack, you can’t blame yourself. Lukas was too much like you. He wouldn’t have done anything he didn’t want to,’ she said. ‘He had too much courage for his own bloody good.’ She started to tremble but did not break down.
Jack continued to cry silently. His son was supposed to have shared his life with this beautiful young woman. They were supposed to get married and have children. Jack would have had grandchildren. But all that was gone now.
‘I saw you visiting that RAAF doctor,’ Jack said. ‘Is he a member of your unit?’
‘Yes,’ Megan answered, but could not look Jack in the eye.
‘You must be very fond of him, from the way I saw you talking together,’ Jack said gently.
‘Dr Crawford is a fine physician, we’re lucky to have him in our unit,’ Megan replied stiffly.
Jack was perceptive enough to see the flicker of guilt in her face, but he did not feel angry. Instead he thought of the irony of war, that it should spare Lucas the loss of the woman he had loved so fiercely in life.
‘I have to go, Jack,’ Megan said, rising from the edge of the bed and giving him a hug. She looked very close to tears. ‘I will visit you every chance I get when I’m in Moresby.’
‘I would like that,’ Jack replied.
When she was gone, Jack reached over to the small cupboard by his bed and opened a drawer. Inside was the small leather pouch with the ring Lukas had planned to give to Megan. He untied the thin leather string attached to the ring and tied it tightly to his dog tags. At least Jack would carry a reminder of happier times when the future had more certainty.
*
Megan stumbled out of the hospital. The night air was warm and she stopped to stare at the star-filled sky above, tears rolling down her cheeks. Lukas would never see that sky again. He was dead. Now she would not have to break the news to him that she had chosen another man. In a way she was relieved that he had been spared that pain, but somehow she felt even guiltier that she had been falling in love with someone else while Lukas was living the last weeks of his life. She felt a terrible pain in her chest and bent over, wracked with sobs. She had loved him and now she would never be able to tell him how sorry she was.
*
It had been a few weeks since the raid on the village by the PIB. Petty Officer Fuji Komine sat at the edge of the beach under the shade of the tall trees. The day was hot and very humid, and the waves lapped feebly against the tiny beach. A line of dark clouds broiled on the horizon, promising a heavy afternoon downpour.
The last of Fuji’s supplies were dwindling. He had slipped away into the forest after he shot Jack Kelly in the thigh, then returned to the village when he was sure the raiding party had left. He had been able to retrieve a quantity of hidden Australian currency from the unit pay store and this had been useful in purchasing food from the villagers, who had slowly returned to their homes after the raid.
A few days after it, when he had felt it was safe to venture out, Fuji had searched the route Oshiro and his patrol had taken. He had located the area of an ambush – the signs on the ground were unmissable – but all the bodies were gone. He saw crocodile tracks all around the area, which gave him a pretty good idea of what had happened to his friend’s body and those of the others killed that day.
Now, sitting by the sea and staring north, he pondered his future. He was a realist and knew that the western powers would eventually defeat Japan. He was also astute enough to know that if his supply of coins ran out, the villagers would probably kill him, as he would no longer be of any use to them. Fuji was careful to change his campsite on a daily basis to avoid them catching him in his sleep and killing him.
He knew that his options were limited. He could attempt to sit out the war by hiding in the bush or he could do the honourable thing and commit seppuku. But Fuji also had to admit to himself that he was not such a devoted warrior of the Emperor that he was prepared to kill himself. He considered his third option. He could trek east and find a village under Australian control, and surrender to his enemy. To his comrades he would be a coward but he had had enough of the war and yearned to see his parents once again. Fuji considered stealing a native canoe as to journey east would expose him to the enemy naval forces which may rescue him under the laws of the sea. To stay alive was important if he were to keep his promise to his old friend.
Fuji sighed and stood up. It was time to relocate and set up his new camp before the rain came.
*
Ilsa’s journey aboard the U-boat had been uneventful. She had been treated well, and a regular diet of nutritious food had put a little flesh on her bones and the ulcers on her body had begun to heal.
The captain and crew had been courteous, and a few submariners even sympathetic. From the snippets of information Ilsa was able to overhear, it appeared Berlin was facing imminent attack from the Russian juggernaut. The morale of the crew, however, was still high; they were returning from a successful mission harassing Allied shipping along the east coast of Australia.
Ilsa had been able to ascertain that she had been a prisoner of war for over three months and she wondered if anyone knew that she was still alive. She had requested the U-boat captain to notify the International Red Cross that she was a prisoner, but he had politely refused, saying that he was under strict orders to maintain radio silence. Ilsa did not believe him, as she had once seen the radio officer transmitting and receiving messages in his tiny nook in the sub’s hull.
The captain would not tell her their destination, but a sailor she had befriended said that the submarine was scheduled to go to Singapore for resupply but their course had been altered and they were to ship into another port.
‘Are we returning to Germany?’ Ilsa asked.
‘No,’ the sailor replied. ‘It is too dangerous. I am not sure what we will be doing – only the captain knows our future operations.’
‘Do you know where the next port will be?’ Ilsa persisted.
‘Only our captain and second-in-command know the answer to that question, Miss Stahl,’ the sailor replied, glancing around to ensure that they were not being observed in conversation. ‘All I do know is that we will be going to another port somewhere in the Far East.’
Ilsa wondered why she should even care where they went. All she knew was that when they arrived, the Gestapo would be waiting for her.
Then, one day, the U-boat surfaced and Ilsa was fetched from where she was held captive. She was told that she had reached her destination and would be handed over to the German authorities.
Ilsa was taken up on the deck and she blinked into the blaze of the tropical sun. When she looked around she saw that the U-boat was cruising in muddy waters and that off its bow lay what was obviously a great delta. She could see many small boats where men wearing wide conical hats to protect them against the sun were fishing with nets in the murky waters.
‘I am sorry to say you must leave us here, Miss Stahl,’ the captain said, standing with his arms behind his back. ‘You will be taken ashore here and handed over to our Gestapo liaison officer.’
‘Is this Singapore?’ Ilsa asked, taking in the heavy scent of rotting vegetation and human waste as they approached a wharf manned by half-naked Asian coolies and armed Japanese guards.
‘No,’ the captain replied. ‘We have come to the port of Saigon.’
‘French Indochina,’ Ilsa gasped. ‘But why?’
The captain excused himself and
turned to speak with his second-in-command. ‘I am sorry, Miss Stahl, but I have duties to attend to. I wish you good luck.’
Alone on the deck beside the sub’s 88 mm deck gun, Ilsa was flooded with confused thoughts. She knew that Saigon was the capital of the southern French colony of Indochina and that the Vichy French had been allowed to continue their government under the watchful eye of the Japanese occupiers. Ilsa had no idea what was going to happen to her, but if she were being handed over to the Gestapo, she would probably be interrogated and executed. She shuddered, wondering why she had survived her ordeal with the Japanese only to face more suffering and probable death at the hands of the Germans.
The U-boat slid into a space beside the wharf and when Ilsa looked up, she could see the distinctive figure of a European man wearing a white hat and white suit. He was staring down at her with a grim expression; beside him stood two Japanese soldiers. Ilsa felt sick. It was obvious that the old adage applied: she had gone from the frying pan into the fire. Now no one would ever learn of her fate. She thought about Clark and despaired.
*
The Berlin road was nothing but a giant rubble heap bordered by grey stone buildings pocked by shrapnel and bullets. Captain Herff clutched the briefcase containing the falsified papers identifying him as an ordinary soldier in the German army. He knew that Berlin was only days – if not hours – from being engulfed by the Red Army, and he also knew that his only hope of survival was to escape to the American front lines, where, it was said, the Americans treated their prisoners according to the rules of the Geneva Convention.
A massive explosion blasted dust, bricks and parts of dead bodies into the air and blew Herff off his feet. Winded, he lay on his back, still clutching to his chest the briefcase with the precious papers. The noise was deafening: artillery rounds exploding, the constant chatter of machine guns and crack of rifles. He could hear people screaming somewhere. Slowly, Herff pushed himself to his knees. He could see an alleyway that he knew led to the railway, which might provide protection from the shelling. He groaned. A detachment of Russian soldiers had appeared only metres away, between him and his escape route. He could see that they were all heavily armed with submachine guns and festooned with grenades; probably a forward unit. Worse still, he could see that they had spotted him and they peeled off in his direction.
