The Pacific

by Peter Watt

‘Drag him aboard,’ the voice said. ‘He might be Chinee.’

  Fuji was beyond caring and did not even feel the pain of his severely sunburned body being dragged over the wooden deck of a boat. Then came the almost-forgotten sensation of liquid trickling into his mouth. It was warm and brackish but that did not matter. Fuji opened his eyes and squinted at the burning haze of blue sky. More water trickled into his mouth and he could see a ring of black faces peering down at him. Amongst the black faces was a white one: beefy, ruddy, with a cigar stuck between the lips.

  ‘You all right, boy?’ the white man asked.

  Fuji could now work out that the man was not dressed in any uniform but wore a pair of shorts over which his big belly extended. The man was almost as brown as the Melanesians staring down at him.

  ‘Goddamned stupid question,’ the man muttered. ‘The son of a bitch probably don’t understand American.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Fuji croaked. ‘I am Japanese – not Chinese.’

  His statement almost caused the man to swallow his cigar. ‘You speak pretty good American – like an Aussie. Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Chief Petty Officer Fuji Komine of the Imperial Japanese Navy and I surrender to you,’ Fuji said.

  ‘If I hadda known you were a goddamned Jap, I would have left you to burn in hell out there,’ the man said, gesturing to the sea. ‘I got a good mind to throw your little yellow carcass right back into the sea.’

  Fuji struggled to sit up and was allowed to, although now he was aware that he was being covered by one of the Melanesian crew members holding a rifle. ‘I am your prisoner of war and expect to be treated accordingly.’

  ‘You speak pretty fancy for a Jap,’ the big man said but with a touch of respect. ‘My name’s Melvin Jones and I’m the skipper of the boat, the Riverside, that has rescued you. You will be handed over to the Aussies down the coast. In the meantime, you will be fed and treated well, but I am going to have you chained to avoid you making any attempt to disrupt my boat.’

  Fuji was taken forward and shackled under a tarpaulin sheet out of the sun. He was given a meal of bully beef and rice, along with a mug of strong, sweetened black tea, and near sunset he noted that the boat had steamed within sight of the coast. Already the food and drink had helped him to recover his strength, and it felt as if his life force were flowing back into his body. The black crew had mostly ignored him but Mel Jones sat down beside him and lit up a cigar.

  ‘I’m a tad curious to know where you came from before we found you,’ Mel said, blowing a great cloud of smoke into the gentle tropical breeze. ‘Not that the Aussies won’t find out for themselves, when they interrogate you.’

  Fuji knew he did not have to volunteer any information but he was beyond caring about his loyalties to Japan. ‘I was with my unit west of here, up the coast. But they are all dead now. The green ghosts attacked us and I was the only one to survive.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’ Mel asked suspiciously, and Fuji cast his mind back, telling the Riverside skipper when the small battle had been.

  Mel puffed on his cigar in silence for a long time before saying, ‘I lost a good buddy that day. He was the skipper of this boat.’

  Fuji did not know that the Riverside had been involved in the skirmish in the village. ‘I am sorry,’ he replied. ‘I also lost a good friend that day.’

  Mel stood and stretched, passing half the cigar to Fuji. ‘I hope this goddamned war finishes soon, so we can all go home.’

  ‘Home,’ Fuji said. ‘Before the war my home was Port Moresby, but even if this war is finished I will not be able to go home.’

  ‘You’re from Moresby?’ Mel asked. ‘My buddy was from Moresby. Maybe you knew him – Lukas Kelly.’

  Fuji froze. ‘His father is Jack Kelly?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. Jack was shot in the leg by some Jap he said he –’ Mel did not finish the sentence but stared down at Fuji. ‘You were the one who shot Jack!’

  ‘I wounded him,’ Fuji replied. ‘He did not deserve to die. He had been very kind to my father and mother.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Fred exclaimed. ‘Son of a bitch! If your pals had succeeded in sinking the old Riverside, you would not be here today – and still alive. Maybe some of that Oriental stuff about karma is true. Jack told me that you shot a Jap officer and saved his life. Why would you do that?’

  ‘It was a matter of honour,’ Fuji replied but did not elaborate. ‘My war is over. There is only the future now.’

  The American’s observations on the strange twist of fate made Fuji think about his own life. He had fought as honourably as he could for the Imperial Japanese Navy but was forced to accept that his time amongst the Europeans had rubbed off on his attitudes. He and many other comrades knew the war was unwinnable but, unlike most of them, Fuji could see no sense in throwing his life away for an ancient belief in death before dishonour. What honour was there in dying in an unwinnable war?

  That night Fuji lay on the deck in his shackles and found some peace in the knowledge that his war was over. All he had to do now was satisfy his oath to his dead friend from Okinawa. That, too, was a matter of honour.

  *

  Although Jack Kelly was at his desk in Port Moresby, his mind was not. He pushed himself out of his chair and went in search of Major Bill Travers.

  Jack found him at his desk, poring over reports.

  He knocked on the open door. ‘Permission to speak with you, boss,’ he said from the doorway, and Bill groaned inwardly. His old friend only called him boss or sir when trouble lay ahead or he wanted something difficult.

  Now he groaned aloud. ‘Come in, Sergeant Kelly. Have a seat. You only call me boss when you want something, or you’re in trouble.’

  Jack grinned and made himself comfortable. ‘Bill, have you heard of a pommy naval officer by the name of Captain Featherstone?’

  ‘I hope you’re having a good day,’ Bill Travers said sarcastically, ‘because your question just gave me indigestion. Yes, I’ve heard of Featherstone. An interfering bugger at the best of times.’

  ‘I heard that he was up this way,’ Jack said, leaning forward. ‘I was hoping to have a word with him – about young Karl Mann.’

  Bill Travers sighed, put down his pencil and leaned back in his chair. ‘I don’t know a lot about this Featherstone, but he seems to swan around wherever he wants and our own lot bows to his requests. There’s a rumour he’s a close mate of Churchill’s, doing his bidding out here.’

  ‘Do you know where I can find him?’ Jack asked.

  Bill rested his arms on the desk top. ‘The last I heard was that he was out at the airfield. That was yesterday. Now, I am not condoning you going to see him, as you know full well about the chain of command, but I think you should head over to the airfield to pick up the latest batch of aerial photos. Might be something sensitive we need a senior NCO to escort back here.’

  Jack saw the slight smile on his superior’s face. ‘Thanks, Bill,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure the photos get back here safely.’

  As Jack was leaving the office, Bill Travers called after him, ‘And if you get yourself into any trouble, it’s your neck on the line. I don’t know anything about this.’

  ‘I was never here,’ Jack grinned, and headed for the vehicle pool to pick up a driver and an American-supplied jeep.

  It was near midday when he made the half-hour trip to the busy airfield. Men stripped to the waist and wearing only their boots and shorts laboured refuelling planes or stacking supplies onto transport aircraft. Others rearmed the weapons systems on fighters, or moved to and from gun pits at the airfield’s outer perimeters, where anti-aircraft guns sat poking their long barrels at the sky.

  Jack dismounted and sent the driver off to pick up the aerial photographs whilst he made enquiries as to the whereabouts of one Captain Featherstone. None of the ground crew could help him, so Jack singled out a RAAF officer he spotted talking to a group of men working on a Kittyhawk fighter. />
  Jack marched over and threw them his best salute.

  ‘What can I do for you, Sergeant?’ the officer asked, stepping away from the ground crew.

  ‘Sir, I have been told to report to Captain Featherstone,’ Jack lied. ‘I believe he is an officer in the Royal Navy, currently stationed here.’

  ‘Featherstone,’ the RAAF officer frowned. ‘He is not stationed here . . .’ Jack felt his hopes be dashed. ‘But he is over there,’ the officer said, pointing to a man standing outside an office, a small, expensive suitcase by his feet. He was dressed in the uniform of the Royal Navy.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Jack said, snapping off another smart salute before marching across the dusty earth at the edge of the hardened runway. As he approached the British officer he was struck by how pale he was; everyone around him was burned almost black from working under the hot sun.

  ‘Captain Featherstone, sir,’ Jack said and snapped off yet another smart salute.

  Featherstone turned his head and returned the salute. ‘Yes, Sergeant, what can I do for you?’

  Jack stood facing the British officer. ‘Sir, you do not know me, but my name is Jack Kelly.’

  Jack was surprised at the officer’s reaction. ‘Sergeant Kelly, I had always hoped to meet you in person one day and, as for not knowing about you, old chap; well, you are seriously misled. Your colourful military and civil record is well known to me, as is your service to King and Empire in two wars. I also know of your relationship to an extraordinary officer who, I suspect you already know, works for me, and I would like to offer my condolences for the recent loss of your brave son, Lukas.’

  Jack stood speechless for a moment. It seemed that there was little Featherstone did not know about him. ‘Sir,’ he said finally, ‘if you know so much about me, then you must know why I have taken it upon myself to meet you and ask you a question. The answer is critical to a woman who has suffered enough for her adopted country.’

  ‘I presume that you have located me to ask on behalf of Major Mann’s mother, Frau Karin Mann,’ Featherstone said. ‘And possibly you’re interested in the fate of your daughter too.’

  Jack didn’t know what to say.

  ‘You must realise, Sergeant Kelly, that such information is classified at the highest levels – only to be given out on a need-to-know basis. However, I feel you are one of the people who needs to know.’

  ‘It was you who sent me that note,’ Jack said.

  ‘Now, that would have contravened all principles of intelligence,’ Featherstone smiled. ‘I am waiting for a crate to fly me to a debriefing, Sergeant Kelly, and when I get to my destination I will be speaking to Major Mann. He was responsible for rescuing your daughter, who is probably now sitting on a beach in Honolulu. Sadly, where Karl has been and what he has done for us – and the Yanks – will never be revealed to the world; not even to you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Sir, you have put my mind at rest and that of Karl’s mother. That is all we need to know,’ Jack said, noticing that a pilot wearing his full flying kit was walking towards them.

  ‘Ah, I am afraid my lift appears to be ready, Sergeant Kelly, so I must bid you good day,’ the British officer said, glancing at his watch. ‘Goodbye, Sergeant Kelly, and may we meet again in better times.’

  Instead of saluting, the British officer reached out and shook Jack’s hand. Thrown off guard, Jack accepted the gesture, then stepped back and saluted Featherstone just as the young pilot reached them.

  Jack’s thoughts were racing as he watched the British officer walk to the small plane waiting to ferry him to only God and the highest security clearance knew where.

  *

  Two weeks of medical attention, on board the American submarine that had picked them up off the coast of Vung Tau and here in Pearl Harbor, had helped Ilsa’s recovery. She had put on weight, to cover those bones made prominent through malnutrition, and the scars of ulcers and infected insect bites were less noticeable.

  She was sitting on a palm-fringed beach, taking in the sun and surf, and gazing at the young servicemen and women enjoying the serenity of the beautiful tropical island. Although word of her rescue had been conveyed to America, there had been little detail of where and how. Clark knew she was alive and recovering in Hawaii, and had written to her, pouring out his love for her and promising that he would be with her as soon as he could get a flight from the States.

  Ilsa had not replied. She still loved her pilot but so much had happened to her since she had last seen him. She was confused and was almost afraid of meeting him again. She needed time to sort out her feelings, to come to grips with the experiences war had made a permanent part of her soul. She had changed so much and she didn’t know whether he would like those changes.

  A shadow fell over her then and a familiar voice said, ‘Ilsa.’

  She turned to see Clark standing over her, wearing the uniform of his rank.

  ‘Clark,’ she replied and felt her heart skip a beat.

  He sank to his knees in the sand and embraced her with all the power in his lean body. Ilsa could feel his tears on her bare shoulders and hear his sobbing words. ‘I never gave up hope.’

  Ilsa felt her own eyes brim with tears. ‘You were always with me, even in the worst of times.’

  They held each other as if they would never let go again. In that embrace, Ilsa knew Clark was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Like her, he had seen terrible things during the war; he would understand her, let her work things out in her own way. They had both survived and now they could get on with living again.

  When they finally broke the embrace, Clark wiped at the tears flowing down his face with the back of his hand.

  ‘I’ll take you back to the States and we’ll arrange the biggest wedding the state of Montana has ever seen,’ he laughed.

  Ilsa gently pushed him away from her. ‘Clark,’ she said softly. ‘It is not that simple.’

  ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I don’t care what has come between us during this goddamned war. All I know is that I love you – have loved you from the very first time I set eyes on you. Nothing has changed for me and it never will.’

  Ilsa gazed into his eyes. ‘But I’ve changed. I’m not the same woman you fell in love with. I’ve been to hell and back, and lost the old me along the way. I need you to understand that, to fall in love with the person I am now. Then, if you still want to marry me, I’ll help you organise that big old wedding of yours.’

  Clark was half-laughing, half-crying at her response. ‘You’ve changed, and I have too. Maybe we both need time to get to know one another again. But I can promise you this – I intend to spend the rest of my life with you.’

  ‘How about we start with the next few hours? I’m willing to bet that my hotel is better than the accommodation the army has supplied you with.’ She gave him a wicked grin.

  For a very brief moment, Clark looked blank, then understanding slowly dawned. ‘Lady, you can bet your ass you’re right on that point,’ he replied with a smile as broad as the plains of his home state. ‘I better do the right thing and give up my billet to some other unfortunate flyer seeking a place to lay his head.’

  They rose from the sandy beach hand in hand and slowly walked across the sand towards the town.

  TWENTY

  General Douglas MacArthur could not be at the medal ceremony, but he did have one of his high-ranking staff attend the investiture of service and bravery awards.

  Major Karl Mann stood in a short rank of foreign recipients inside the grand plantation house’s spacious marble and teak ballroom. The large double-storeyed house had been used by the occupying Japanese and was now functioning as offices for the administration of the liberated regions of the Philippine Islands. Cold drinks and alcohol were to be served after the ceremony, by hastily uniformed Filipino waiters carrying any silver tray they could scrounge to give the moment some sense of importance.

  A full colonel pinned the American award on Karl’s im
maculately pressed dress uniform. Captain Featherstone stood to one side, watching as the awards were read out and the medals presented. Beside him was Colonel Basham of the OSS, who was also dressed in his best uniform, displaying on his chest numerous colourful ribbons for services to the US.

  ‘Your man deserved his award for what he did for us,’ Basham said quietly to Featherstone as the last medal was pinned and the recipients joined the invited guests.

  ‘Glad that we in the diminishing British Empire could be of some assistance, old chap,’ Featherstone replied.

  ‘Congratulations, Major Mann,’ Basham said, extending his hand as Karl walked towards him. ‘I hope we have the opportunity of working with you in the future – if Captain Featherstone ever lets you go.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ Karl replied with a smile as a waiter offered him a crystal flute of chilled champagne. ‘When the war ends I am returning to New Guinea to my old job as a government patrol officer. This has been my first and last war. So here’s to the declaration of peace very soon.’

  Karl raised his glass.

  ‘The King,’ Featherstone said.

  ‘To Uncle Sam,’ Basham added.

  ‘Peace,’ Karl concluded. ‘And Australia.’

  One of the correspondents covering the ceremony was Ilsa. She had recovered from the physical privations of her captivity and, at her insistence, returned to work. She was wearing her customary long trousers and tan-coloured shirt, and felt better than she had in a very long time.

  ‘Is this an unofficial gathering of our newly established United Nations?’ she said with a warm smile as she approached the trio.

  ‘Miss Stahl,’ Featherstone greeted her. ‘I hope that you mention in your American newspapers that we British were of some help in winning the war,’ he said with a smile. ‘Even the colonials were some help in defeating our enemies.’

  Ilsa laughed and Karl extended his hand to her. ‘Hello, cousin. Good to see the rosy flush in your cheeks.’

  ‘Hello, Karl,’ she said, taking his hand between her own. ‘How’s the big brother I always dreamed of having?’