The Pacific

by Peter Watt

  ‘You are in contact with the Americans?’ Karl asked, stunned.

  ‘We have established contact with the Americans with one of our radios,’ the doctor answered. ‘The Americans have an organisation called the Office of Strategic Services, who have an interest in our great leader, Ho Chi Minh.’

  ‘I know of it,’ Karl replied. ‘Why did you not tell us about your communications with the Yanks before?’

  ‘I could not,’ Nuyen said quietly. ‘There is something else you must know if I am to provide you with help.’

  ‘What is that?’ Karl responded.

  ‘The Americans have sent a message to say that they want you to dispose of Pham,’ he replied quietly. ‘Or they will withdraw their help getting you out of Indochina.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Karl exclaimed and the Vietnamese doctor gestured for him to keep his voice down, as Pham was only a few yards away, briefing the men sent to assist in the rescue mission.

  ‘Pham is a traitor to my country,’ Nuyen said. ‘He intends to collect intelligence on the Viet Minh leadership here, so that when his French imperialist comrades return, our leaders can be arrested and executed.’

  ‘The politics in this bloody country are driving me mad,’ Karl said, shaking his head. ‘Why have Pham killed when it has been he who has worked with you?

  ‘Pham is double-faced,’ Hung answered. ‘He only pretends to work with us, when his real mission is to betray us as soon as the French return. He uses your mission as a cover for his own ends.’

  Karl had to accept that what Nuyen was saying was true. He had never truly trusted the French officer, but he had come to accept that without Pham’s help he would not have got this far in an alien land of rice paddies and rubber plantations. And Pham had saved his life, which was not easily forgotten.

  ‘If you believe he is a traitor to your cause, why don’t you execute him?’ Karl asked, leading the doctor a little way into the dark shadows of the back alley as the first heavy drops of rain fell.

  ‘Because you need him until the last moment of your operation to save the American woman,’ Nuyen answered. ‘But the Americans are sensitive and want you to ensure that he does not leave these shores alive. They see Pham as a dangerous troublemaker. Their OSS have established good relations with Ho Chi Minh. They don’t want anything to jeopardise that.’

  ‘The Yanks can keep their hands clean – if I kill Pham,’ Karl said. Despite Pham’s aloof and sometimes arrogant manner, Karl had come to respect him, for his ability to keep them both out of the clutches of the enemy. In fact, it could be said that the man had become a friend of sorts.

  ‘You will do it?’ Nuyen queried, seeing the expression of doubt on Karl’s face.

  ‘I will do it,’ he said reluctantly. What choice did he have? If the Americans did not help him exit Saigon, he and the German woman stood very little chance of surviving.

  ‘Good,’ Nuyen nodded.

  When the briefing was over, Karl and Pham retreated to their safe house for the rest of the day. Both men had armed themselves with a Sten gun, and spent the day stripping, cleaning and otherwise ensuring their weapons were in perfect working order.

  Karl attempted to doze. The storms that had cleared around midmorning threatened to return, bringing with them an oppressive humidity.

  ‘It is time to go,’ Pham said eventually and Karl dragged himself off the low bed to follow him.

  The men left the safe house and made their way to the ambush site. Overhead the sky was ominous. Karl was pleased to see that there were not many Japanese patrols on the street and guessed that they were wisely choosing to remain close to shelter. He sent up a quick thanks to whatever Vietnamese gods controlled the weather.

  An hour before the small convoy was due through the narrow intersection designated as the ambush site, Karl met up with his party of guerrilla fighters, the same three tough-looking Viet Minh whose demeanour spoke of seasoned soldiers. They carried their weapons concealed in the bags slung over their bicycles and easily blended in with the few local people on the streets going about their business amongst the street stalls.

  Karl kept out of public view, behind an oxen wagon brought to the scene earlier that day by the three Viet Minh men. To all appearances it was simply a means of transporting the goods sold in the market stalls.

  The storm finally broke with a violent downpour and the streets ran with riverlets. The merchants quickly battened down their tiny stalls as their customers scuttled for shelter.

  Karl glanced at his watch and gave the signal. The ox cart was dragged into the street, blocking vehicular traffic from the direction they expected the Japanese convoy to come, and each man took out his weapon.

  The Japanese were on time. The convoy, which consisted of a sedan and a covered lorry, ground to a halt behind the ox cart.

  Two of the Viet Minh stepped from the kerb and rushed the escort car, pouring automatic gunfire through the windows, smashing glass and peppering the bodies of the three soldiers inside, who barely had time to realise the danger they were in before they died.

  Karl ran to the passenger side of the truck, ripping open the door to stare briefly into the startled face of a uniformed Japanese soldier. The man was desperately attempting to bring the muzzle of his rifle around to fire on Karl, but died almost instantly as bullets from Karl’s submachine gun ripped through his body.

  The driver had already exited on the other side of the truck and was sprinting back up the road, where he would run into the sentry Karl had placed to warn them of any further Japanese vehicles.

  Pham had already made his way to the back of the truck and dispatched another Japanese soldier, who had been foolish enough to poke his head around the canvas to see what was happening. The Japanese soldier pitched from the truck and smashed into the hard earth of the roadway. Pham clambered up into the back of the truck, his commando knife at the ready. He could not risk firing into the truck, lest he hit the prisoner they had been assigned to rescue. He was vaguely aware of a blast from a rifle and the bullet ripped through his stomach, forcing him against the back board of the truck. Pham realised too late that he had not seen the second guard in the dark recess at the back. The second guard, who had shot him at point blank range, was already chambering another round to finish him off.

  Karl heard the shot and ran to the rear of the truck, where he saw the upper half of a Japanese soldier standing over someone he presumed was Pham. Karl made a split-second decision to use his Sten, as his target was clearly displayed. Any shots he fired from below would go up and not back into the truck. Karl flung the short metal butt to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger, sending a shower of projectiles into the exposed chest and head of the enemy soldier, who died almost immediately.

  ‘Pham!’ Karl yelled. ‘Are you okay?’ There was no answer other than a low groan. Karl scrambled up the back of the truck to pitch himself inside, falling on Pham’s body. He could smell a mix of blood and cordite.

  ‘Who are you?’ a frightened female voice asked. ‘You speak English.’

  ‘Major, Australian Army,’ Karl responded.

  The woman took tentative steps towards Karl from the far corner of the truck, as if waking from a long sleep, then fell to her knees beside Pham, who lay on his back gripping his stomach, blood oozing between his fingers.

  ‘Gut shot,’ Pham hissed through gritted teeth to Karl. ‘You have to leave me. Just pass up my Sten.’

  Karl was forced to make a decision. If he left Pham he would surely die, and Karl would be able to satisfy the request of the American OSS. Already Karl could hear rifle shots from up the road, which either meant the sentry posted had shot the fleeing Japanese driver or that enemy reinforcements were on the way.

  Karl dropped the back board of the truck, ordered the woman to jump down and slung his SMG over his shoulder, reaching for Pham’s arms and dragging him from the rear of the truck. The French officer screamed in pain but the sound was muffled by the roar of the rain. Lifti
ng Pham over his shoulders, Karl carried him as though he were a sack of grain.

  ‘Follow me,’ he called to the woman needlessly – she was sticking close to her rescuers. Already the street was empty of people, all of whom knew that if they were found in the street, they would be shot by the vengeful Japanese. The Viet Minh resistance fighters had already melted into the backstreets of the city.

  Karl half-ran, half-walked, with Pham clinging to him and moaning in pain. He reached the alleyway that led to the parked getaway car, the Vietnamese doctor behind the wheel.

  Nuyen looked alarmed when he saw Karl emerge from the rain with Pham over his shoulders and the woman following. Karl thrust Pham into the back seat and sat him upright, snapping an order for the woman to join Pham in the back whilst he sat in the front beside Nuyen.

  ‘Go!’ Karl yelled, clutching the dashboard, and the doctor rammed the gear shift into action. The car pulled away from the kerb and slowly picked up speed.

  Karl turned round and looked at Pham. Quickly he took off his shirt and passed it to the woman in the back seat. ‘Here, take this. It’s wet but it’s better than nothing. Press it to the wound. Keep pressing until we tell you. Our driver is a doctor, but he can’t stop here, it’s too dangerous.’ He didn’t mention that the good doctor actually wanted Pham dead.

  He saw that the woman was doing as he instructed. Already her thin sarong-like dress was covered in blood. Her hair was dripping wet from the rain.

  ‘You said that you are from the Australian Army,’ the woman said after a moment. ‘How is it that you have risked your life to rescue me?’

  Karl wiped water from his face and slid the Sten gun down beside him, out of sight. ‘That is a bloody good question,’ he replied. ‘I don’t even know who you are. You can’t be Herlinde Kroth – you look nothing like her.’

  ‘I am Ilsa Stahl,’ the woman replied. ‘I am an American correspondent for a New York paper.’

  ‘You’re not the woman I was originally sent to get out of Jap hands,’ Karl answered. ‘But, for some reason, your Yank mates want you back pretty badly.’

  ‘You haven’t told me your name,’ the woman said.

  ‘Mann. Major Karl Mann,’ Karl replied.

  ‘Mann,’ she said softly. ‘I have German relatives by the name of Mann who live in Papua. Are you related to them?’

  Karl felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It could not be possible . . .

  He could hear scattered gunfire somewhere behind them and guessed that the Japanese had already arrived at the scene of the ambush, taking out their fury on anyone foolish enough to have loitered in the street.

  NINETEEN

  Karl Mann turned his head to take a long look at the woman behind him. ‘Was your father Gerhard Stahl and your mother Erika Mann?’

  ‘My adopted father, yes,’ Ilsa answered, her eyes widening. ‘My mother was Erika Mann.’

  ‘God in heaven!’ Karl exclaimed in German. ‘Your mother was my father’s sister – my aunt – which makes you my cousin. I remember Uncle Jack telling me about you. You met him back in ’42, didn’t you, but you didn’t keep in contact.’

  ‘I regret that,’ Ilsa said. ‘I was intending to search him out when I flew to meet with my fiancé in Port Moresby. My plane crashed in the sea and a Japanese submarine found us. It’s a long story, and one I don’t fully understand, but somehow I ended up in Saigon.’

  Karl did not know how to react to the news that he had inadvertently rescued his cousin, the daughter of a man he considered as close to him as his own father.

  ‘You have been speaking in German,’ the Vietnamese doctor said as he wound his way between deep puddles of water on the dirt road. The rain was easing off and visibility improving. ‘What have you learned of this woman we were sent to rescue?’

  Karl returned his attention to the driver. ‘Doctor van Nuyen, you would not believe me if I told you.’ Then he said to Ilsa, ‘Why are the Americans so keen to have you rescued?’

  Ilsa frowned. ‘I truly don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I was hoping you could tell me.’

  She looked away, back to Pham. The shirt was already soaked with blood and she pressed harder onto the wound. ‘Surely there must be something else we can do for this man.’

  ‘We cannot stop until we reach safety,’ Karl said. No doubt the Japanese would already have begun their search for the perpetrators of such a brazen attack on them. In time their attention would extend to outlying areas of the fishing village like Vung Tau. Pham’s groans of pain each time the cramped little sedan hit a pothole reminded Karl that he had a job to do before he could expect any assistance from the Americans.

  He stared out at the road in front of them; it was lined with many shanties, indicating they were approaching a large village or town. The rain had stopped now, but water was still running down the sides of the road.

  ‘We go straight to beach,’ the doctor said. ‘A fishing boat is waiting to take you to sea.’

  They drove through the town, narrowly avoiding a foot patrol of armed Japanese soldiers, and turned off a tree-lined street onto a road that ran alongside a wide sandy beach, where Chinese fishing junks lined up at anchor. The sun was setting behind a dark sky, and Karl was pleased to see that the enemy had not set up sentry posts along the beach.

  The car came to a stop and Karl jumped out. With Ilsa’s help he gently removed Pham from the back seat and laid him on the ground beside the car. He could see that his injury was very bad indeed and that his comrade had little time to live. The high-velocity bullet had been fired at close range and ripped through the top part of Pham’s abdomen. Karl did not know how long they would have to wait for the extraction and could see the pleading in Pham’s eyes. Maybe if they left Pham the Japanese, who were bound to be at the beach before too long, would give him medical treatment but Karl knew that he was fooling himself. The Japanese would only torture Pham, in light of the loss of their prisoner. Given the brutality of the times, Karl knew that he had only one option. Taking Pham with them was not a choice he could make.

  Pham reached up and gripped Karl’s arm. ‘You have to leave me,’ he gasped. ‘Just give me a gun . . . or do it yourself. There is not much time . . . I am –’ He slumped into unconsciousness.

  Karl turned to the doctor. ‘Do you have a pistol?’ he asked but the doctor shook his head.

  Karl retrieved his Sten gun from the passenger seat and clicked a full magazine on the weapon.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ilsa gasped when she saw Karl place the short barrel of the weapon against Pham’s head.

  ‘There is no hope for him. If we take him with us, he will die. If we leave him behind, the Japanese will kill him – if he is not already dead. I have no choice.’

  She took a step in his direction.

  ‘Look away!’ Karl barked.

  He fired a burst of three bullets into Pham’s head, and Ilsa raised her hands to her face in horror.

  Karl stood up, glancing at the Vietnamese doctor, who nodded.

  ‘You must hurry to the boat on the end,’ Nuyen said. ‘The captain is ready to leave now. There is no time to waste.’

  ‘What about Pham?’ Karl asked.

  ‘You will have to take him with you,’ Nuyen said. ‘When you are far enough out, dump his body in the sea. We cannot afford to have him found by the enemy here or they will suspect that a fishing boat is involved in your escape.’

  Karl kneeled down, lifted the body of his comrade and walked towards the boat the doctor had indicated. Ilsa followed him; he could hear her shocked sobs. When they reached the fishing boat, one of the Vietnamese crew jumped down and helped Karl push the body aboard. Karl and Ilsa were helped over the side, a sail was raised and within minutes the boat slowly picked up speed to chop its way through the water.

  Karl glanced over at the beach and noticed that the doctor’s car was already gone. He sat down on the deck, his back against the cabin of the fishing boat; his mind was reeling from all
that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  The boat rose and fell on the gentle waters as they sailed south. The night had cleared to reveal a sky of brilliant, sparkling stars. Already the captain of the boat had raised his signal lights, despite the danger of being spotted by any Japanese naval patrols. He did not speak English but he knew his job.

  Eventually Ilsa came over and sat down beside Karl.

  ‘I am sorry for what you had to do back there on the beach,’ she said. ‘I guess he was a friend of yours.’

  Karl did not reply. He was too weary and his soul felt too empty.

  Ilsa fell silent. She had suffered in this war herself; she understood that there were some things you could never forgive yourself for.

  *

  Keela was in the canoe with him, and Fuji attempted to cry but no tears would come, as his dehydrated body had nothing else to give. Days earlier, the currents had caught hold of his little craft and swept him out to sea. Then a large wave had rolled the canoe, dumping his supplies into the water and leaving him without food, water or even his clothes. He had been able to scramble back into the boat, but now he wished he had drowned because he was going to die a slow, agonising death from dehydration. The coastline was no longer visible and he was going to die alone on this flat, featureless sea.

  But when the night came and stars burned in the moonless sky, Keela came to him as a wispy spectre, whispering sad words of regret for what they had lost in this lifetime. She was just as beautiful as the day he had last seen her.

  He drifted in and out of consciousness, and was hardly aware that the blazing sun was already rising from the sea, He wanted only to remain with Keela and he tried to call out to her, but it seemed even she had deserted him in the last moments of his life.

  ‘He’s not a kanaka,’ a voice drifted to him, and Fuji suddenly felt his body being jolted. He tried to open his eyes but was confused by what he saw, and his lips were so swollen and cracked that he could utter no words.