The Guns of Muschu

by Don Dennis

  None came.

  By 0100 hours the glow from the moon had vanished and the night was now inky black. Palmer decided to shift position. This meant rounding Cape Barabar and coming into the gun battery’s line of fire. He turned and looked at Cardew. In the dim red combat light, his face remained mask–like, jaw clenched.

  Palmer checked the plot again, flicked off the combat light, then gave the order. The helmsman swung the wheel as the engines throttled up. HDML 1321 went about and headed slowly west. Against the backdrop of stars, Cape Barabar was a low, black finger jutting from the coast. Palmer sighted on the cape, then instructed the helmsman to alter course ten degrees to port. He’d swing wide around the point to avoid the reef, then tuck in close to the beach and hug the coast. Hands gripping the bridge coaming, he steadied himself as the ship rose to a big wave that passed underneath, then foamed in towards the shore. In years to come, the point would become a mecca for surfers, but that night the waves were a curse, capable of broaching the boat if they hit beam-on.

  They rounded Cape Barabar into a calmer patch of water. Altering course towards the shore, Palmer carefully felt his way closer, then turned to run parallel with the reef.

  Through the binoculars he could see the beach and beyond it, the hill where the guns were reported to be hidden. He gauged the range, then glanced at the map plot. They were less than 500 metres from the guns. If the Japs were going to fire on them, now would be the time.

  Slowly they cruised past, all eyes fixed on the hill. Then it was astern and Palmer smiled thinly. What he hadn’t told Cardew was that the British Vickers 140 mm naval gun wasn’t capable of depressing its barrel more than six degrees. If the Japanese had copied the design faithfully then they’d have the same limitations. According to his calculations, from their position on the hill they couldn’t bring the weapons to bear on a target closer than 2 kilometres.

  For the next three hours HDML 1321 cruised the southern coast of Muschu, then as the first greying of dawn tinged the eastern sky, Palmer slipped north around Cape Barabar, powered up and left the island in their wake.

  38. PNG MAINLAND:

  19 APRIL, 0600 HOURS

  Screeching filled his ears. Dennis snapped awake. For a moment panic swept him, but he forced his fear aside. Gripping the Sten in his right hand, he curled his finger lightly on the trigger as he slowly raised the weapon. He remained silent, his mind focusing as he drove the fatigue from his brain. Like a radio tuning to a distant station, he sifted through the sounds that assaulted him like a living thing, trying to make sense of the noise. Then he recognised it. In the trees around him, hundreds of birds were joining in a raucous chorus that was spreading like ripples through the forest. Dawn was approaching and through the canopy of leaves, he could see the sky turning pink.

  Exhaling slowly, he remained mouth open in a position that peaked his hearing, listening for anything that indicated the Japanese were near. The only sounds were the birds, now competing with each other for the loudest and noisiest call. In a way it was comforting, for he knew if they sensed danger, they’d fall silent.

  Maybe.

  His thoughts drifted. For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of remembering home . . .

  Wake up!

  He forced his eyes open. The birds were quieter now, their calls less frenzied, as if an argument had been settled and they were discussing a few minor details. The sky was a vivid red, the sun streaming through the canopy and dappling the leafy jungle floor. Already the chill of night was lifting and he felt the humidity pressing in like a heavy blanket.

  An insect buzzed.

  Carefully, with his back to the tree, his right hand gripping the Sten, he used his left hand to part the palm fronds he’d used for cover. For a moment he was reluctant to leave the tree’s buttressed roots, the hideaway suddenly comforting and warm. Like a kid hiding under the blankets in a storm.

  God I’m hungry, he thought. And thirsty. A beer, I’d give anything for a beer. Or tea, hot and sweet. Better still, coffee, strong and black . . .

  Wake up!

  His eyes snapped open. Slowly he stood, keeping his back against the tree. His body ached, his legs tingled as the circulation returned. His head felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool.

  How long was it now? Seven days, eight? He’d slept maybe two hours each night. In training they’d been taught the effects of sleep deprivation, being kept awake for more than three days without a break. After that, strange things happened. Hallucinations, falling asleep standing up, falling asleep walking. Some people ran about gibbering. Others just glazed over and sat speechless like zombies. It was insidious.

  Last night he’d slept little. It had rained almost continually, and when it didn’t rain the mosquitoes had found him. The best he could do was rest, eyes closed and shivering. In some ways it was more exhausting than running all day.

  Should’ve brought some of doc’s magic pills with me, he thought.

  He scanned the area, his weapon following his gaze. The rainforest was a maze of trees and ferns, with shafts of sunlight breaking the shadows. After taking a long drink from his canteen, he rummaged in his pack for the remaining glucose tablet. He munched slowly, trying to savour the taste while avoiding thoughts of other food, then washed it down with water.

  He made a quick body check, noting that the coral gashes on his legs were healing well. Probably the swim, he thought—salt water does wonders. Also the soft skin around his eyes where the mosquitoes had feasted had lost most of its swelling—again probably due to the salt water. He knew he should check his feet, but decided against it. If he removed his boots his feet could swell and he’d never get them on again. At the moment, although they were sore from days of walking, they felt fine.

  After taking off what remained of his shirt, he saw that he was covered with scratches and cuts, some looking red and angry. A vine slash on his upper left arm was the worst, so he used a little of his remaining water to clean it. Digging into his pack, he took out his first aid kit, found the antiseptic cream and smeared it on the wound. He ripped a length of gauze from a field dressing and bound the arm, taking care not to wrap it too tightly.

  That was about all he could do. He considered himself lucky to be only scratched and bruised after almost a week on the run. All it would take was a twisted ankle and he’d be in serious trouble . . .

  I’m not in serious trouble now? he thought. Half the bloody Japanese Army is after me . . .

  He looked at his shirt. It was a dirt-smeared, shredded rag. Ironically it actually helped camouflage him by breaking up his outline.

  Must look a fright, he thought, rubbing a hand over his stubbled face.

  I need a shave, a hot shower, then a good feed . . .

  And sleep . . .

  He shrugged on his shirt then paused, making doubly sure that no one was near, for the next part of his routine would leave him very vulnerable.

  With the dexterity of experience, he quickly removed the magazine from his Sten, then stripped the weapon to its working components. Despite yesterday’s cleaning they were already showing signs of rust.

  Always the bloody way, Dennis thought. For some reason military weapons were made from steel that was prone to rust. He was sure it was intended to keep idle soldiers busy. So how to clean it without oil?

  His cleaning rag still had a trace of oil left, so he used it to wipe away as much rust as he could, only paying attention to the essential moving parts. The barrel was clear—it probably needed a quick pull-through, but that could wait. It wouldn’t affect the weapon’s accuracy in close-up fighting.

  Parts of the exterior were covered with fine rust. Externally it could rust into oblivion for all he cared. It made no difference to how the weapon functioned.

  He needed oil. But from where?

  Turning to his medical kit he found the antiseptic cream and squeezed a little of the yellow ointment onto his finger. It was thicker than oil and smelled faintly of fish. But it was be
tter than nothing. He rubbed it on the bolt and smeared it thinly on the spring and inside the bolt receiver.

  Next he emptied the magazine of rounds and stripped it. He removed the spring, then stretched it a little to restore its power. After cleaning and coating all parts lightly with ointment, he reassembled the magazine. Laying out the remaining 60 rounds on his pack, he inspected and cleaned them one by one. Had salt water seeped into the cordite and left them useless? Except for a slight greening of the brass groove that surrounded the percussion caps, they seemed okay. Experience told him they would be fine, yet there remained a nagging doubt. He wouldn’t know until he pulled the trigger.

  He assembled the weapon, worked the bolt to and fro. Although a little stiff, it moved smoothly. After reloading his remaining rounds then replacing the magazine, he leaned the Sten against the tree.

  Now he had to think through his next move. He needed water. There were plenty of streams around and all he had to do was make sure he collected some water from a spot not being watched by the Japanese. That could be a problem. Best way was to find a stream overhung by foliage, crawl on his belly to the edge, reach out and fill his canteen. Hopefully an arm and canteen would be difficult to see.

  Unfolding his map, he oriented it with his compass. The map told him precious little except that he was in thick rainforest on hilly terrain cut by creeks that ran out to the sea. Since landing, he estimated he’d travelled about 6 kilometres inland and almost 20 north. A rough guess suggested he was about 10, maybe 15 kilometres south of the Australian line of advance.

  A twig breaking made him catch his breath. Was it his imagination? He folded the map away then listened, senses tingling.

  The sound came again, this time a soft rustling of leaves from somewhere behind the tree. Reaching for the Sten, he gently drew back the bolt with one hand while covering the bolt receiver with the other to muffle the click of the trigger sear engaging. Pressing hard into the tree he held the weapon ready, remaining still, head raised to see over the buttressed roots either side.

  He noticed with a chill that the birds had all fallen silent.

  How long had it been like that?

  He cursed himself for allowing his attention to wander.

  A swish of leaves, closer now. Then a shadow, long and distorted by motes of sun, moving over the forest floor to his right. Dennis slowly swung the Sten towards it.

  A figure came into his peripheral vision. A small yellow head, atop a long, thick, blue neck . . .

  What the hell is that?

  A bird! Almost six feet tall, strutting on long, powerful legs with a heavy, penguin-shaped body covered with shiny black feathers. Its head was topped by a bony, helmet-like crest.

  A cassowary.

  They’d been warned about them. Capable of tearing a man apart with their talons, cassowaries were aggressively territorial. Known to attack without provocation, the Papuans regarded killing them as a right of passage for young warriors. Wearing their feathers was a symbol of power among many tribes.

  The cassowary moved past about 4 metres to his right. Almost the size of an ostrich, it looked fiercely prehistoric. It suddenly stopped as if sensing something. Its head snapped around and beady eyes met his.

  Cautiously it took a step towards him. Dennis could see its three-clawed feet, the dagger-like middle talons almost six inches long. It took another step, this time with confidence. It took another, then paused 2 metres away, one foot raised, the gleaming talon pointing at him in an accusing fashion.

  It lunged.

  He squeezed the Sten’s trigger.

  Two rounds cracked out, slammed into the bird and it dropped twitching in a cloud of feathers.

  Dennis was on his feet, slinging his pack over his shoulder, leaping over the carcass while the shots still echoed around him. He bolted, dodging vines and weaving around trees. After 50 metres he broke right, travelled another 50 metres, then paused, crouching near a clump of ferns. Heart pounding, he listened to the sounds of the jungle. It was deathly still.

  He was shocked by the fear the cassowary had evoked. There was something strangely primal about being attacked by an animal.

  It was only an overgrown budgerigar, he reassured himself. Should’ve stopped and taken a drumstick. Be good roasted over a fire . . .

  Again he forced his mind to stop wandering.

  He feared the Japanese would have heard the shots. But would they follow? It was difficult to judge direction and distance in heavy foliage, and there were often small enemy groups out hunting food. They might assume the shots came from their own.

  The best thing was to assume nothing. If they were after him they’d soon show themselves. Should he move now or wait? If he surprised them maybe he could nail them all . . . but . . .

  He checked the weapon, removed the magazine and worked the bolt. It felt smoother. The heat of firing maybe? It seemed antiseptic cream made a good lubricant. He thought about passing the tip on when he got back. If he got back.

  High in the trees nearby a bird shrieked, a whooping howl that was answered from a long way off.

  He decided that no one was following. Noting the angle of the sun through the canopy, he figured it was about 0700 hours. Already he was sweating. The insects were out in force now, buzzing around looking for flesh to feed on. He slapped at a huge fly that settled on his wrist. It zipped away with impunity and circled before landing on a nearby branch and peering down at him with bulging eyes.

  He stared back.

  If the Japs don’t get you the bloody insects will.

  On the ground among the detritus, he could see leeches waving their heads in rhythmic patterns as they sought the heat from his body. A few were making their way towards him.

  He shuddered.

  Forget them. A bullet will kill you quicker . . .

  Using his compass, he found a distant tree that was almost due north and set off, walking at a brisk pace. Reaching the tree, he paused to rest, then took another bearing and repeated the procedure. For a while travelling through the rainforest was relatively easy, the terrain undulating, with large trees and only a light undergrowth of ferns and plants. Even so he found he was tiring quickly and his rest breaks were becoming longer.

  He had to find somewhere to hole up and sleep. If he kept going like this he knew he’d make mistakes. He was already making them—the last bearing he’d taken was thirty degrees out and he’d had to backtrack to compensate. Any more of that and he’d wind up going around in circles.

  Pushing himself on, the rainforest gave way to heavily wooded country cut by steep-banked streams. Crossing them was an effort: sliding down one bank and splashing through the water to scramble up the slippery bank on the other side taxed his strength until he could go no further. He rested, drank the last of his water, then pushed on to the next creek where he refilled his canteen.

  The terrain was now rising and he found a narrow track that wound back up into the rainforest. Slowly he climbed, forcing one step after another, feet slipping as the track steepened. Sweat stinging his eyes, he tried to see ahead, but found himself constantly looking down, searching for footholds as the trail became almost vertical. Clutching vines and tree roots, he struggled to reach the top, where the terrain opened out into broad grassland. Again he rested, taking a quick mouthful of water.

  He was about to move off again when he heard Japanese voices ahead. Easing off the track and crouching in heavy undergrowth, he waited as the voices approached. He flicked off the Sten’s safety catch and aimed the weapon. Through the foliage he could see along the track to a bend. The voices were louder now, chattering excitedly.

  Four soldiers appeared, rifles slung over their shoulders. They passed by so close he could have reached out and touched them. He watched them go, still talking and laughing.

  Where there were four well-fed, well-armed Japanese there’d undoubtedly be more. But he had no choice: the further inland he went, the more difficult the terrain was; head towards the coast
and he’d run into more Japs. Straight up the middle was the only way.

  He moved on, more cautious now, the track winding through an area of thick kunai grass. For almost an hour he continued at a steady pace, stopping regularly to listen. Coming to a rise with a clear field of vision to the coast, he concealed himself and was about to take compass bearings to fix his position when he heard the distinctive scratch of artillery rounds passing overhead to the north.

  The shells slammed into a hill about 3 kilometres away. He watched the barrage, counting the impacts and hoping they were on target. For almost ten minutes the firing continued, then it stopped, leaving the hill covered in drifting grey smoke.

  The artillery gave him encouragement. They looked like 25-pounders and with a maximum range of about 14 kilometres, it meant he was getting very close to the Australian line of advance. Now he had to be even more cautious—it would be the ultimate irony to be shot by an advancing Australian patrol.

  Draining his canteen, he set out again. The track was now heading north and for ten minutes he made quick progress. Then suddenly, after coming around a bend, he came head-on to another patrol. This one was moving quietly, weapons ready, well spread out. Before they could react he opened fire, hitting the leader in the chest. The others scattered either side of the track as Dennis shifted targets and fired a long burst that slashed the kunai grass around them.

  Changing magazines, Dennis fired again, then leapt into the grass on his right, ran 20 metres, stopped and crouched beside a tree.

  The Japanese were now firing in his direction, bullets cracking overhead, a few chipping bark off the tree. Dennis remained in cover, listening to the confusion, trying to work out their positions. Most of them were to his left, about 30 metres away. They were still firing, but it was more coordinated now and he realised from the shouted orders that someone had taken charge and they were forming an extended line intending to sweep through his position.