by Peter Watt
On shouted orders from the platoon commander, the men were on their feet pursuing the escaping terrorists, but they were quickly ordered to halt to prevent being caught in their own crossfire from the flank.
Patrick was ordered to return to the bodies of the two men caught in the ambush to search them, while the platoon commander radioed in a sitrep to BHQ. The other sections returned to their rendezvous point and spread out in a defensive perimeter.
Terituba joined Patrick kneeling by the bodies. One of the dead enemy had his face shot away and his elbow shattered. The smell of blood was as strong as the scent of the rotting vegetation. The second body had been riddled with bullets to the torso and had a smashed leg. The 7.62 millimetre rifle rounds caused horrific wounds as they travelled at thousands of feet per second before hitting yielding flesh and bone.
Patrick stared at the undamaged face of the second man and experienced a twinge of guilt. He was very young – maybe fifteen – he thought. The boy’s eyes were open and his expression dulled by death. Patrick could see how malnourished the dead boy was and he had nothing on him but a pair of chopsticks and a tattered party membership card.
‘How did you go, Private Duffy?’ the platoon sergeant asked over his shoulder.
‘Just these,’ Patrick said, holding up the two items. ‘The poor bastard looks as if the chopsticks didn’t get much of a workout.’
The sergeant produced a camera to photograph the dead enemy for future identification purposes. A burial party was quickly organised and the two bodies were committed to a common, shallow grave.
The order from battalion headquarters was for the platoon to continue the next day and pursue the survivors; there was no sense attempting this during the night. Patrick saw the platoon commander praising Terituba for spotting the tracks earlier in the afternoon. He had just earned a new name from the members of his platoon – Tracker – which he accepted with beaming pride.
*
Sam Po had been stunned by the ambush on his small party. He had been about to join them when the gunfire had erupted in the gloom of the rainforest giants. His reaction had been quick, and he had turned with his companion to escape the hail of bullets raining down on the three men at their rendezvous point in the rainforest.
He ran as hard as he could and hoped that the growing darkness would hide him and his comrade. He ran until his lungs gave out and he collapsed on the soft bed of rotting vegetation. The man with him stopped too and fought for breath.
‘What do we do, Comrade Po?’ he gasped.
‘We keep going until we reach the shallow creek not far from here, and then we use it to cover our tracks,’ Sam finally said when he had been able to get his breath back. ‘Then we make our way back to our main base on the border.’
Sam and the other guerrilla soldier stood up and began to jog towards the creek in a gully below them. They entered the water and waded upstream until Sam was satisfied he had broken the trail they had left. It would take him two days to reach his main base, and he knew that the British would call for reinforcements to pursue him. He also knew they had helicopters and light reconnaissance aircraft to fly over the rainforest in search of him. Every step he took was a step closer to death.
*
The following day Patrick’s platoon continued the pursuit with Terituba leading the way. By mid-morning they reached a fast-flowing but shallow creek where Terituba said the enemy’s trail disappeared into the water. He guessed they had used the creek to break the trail and knew time would be required to beat a way through the heavy scrub at the edge of the creek to find where the two men had exited the water.
He explained the situation to his platoon commander who pulled a pained face. ‘It looks like they’re leading us towards the Thai border,’ Lieutenant Gauden said and turned to his radio operator. However, he was unable to contact BHQ and guessed that the radio was not strong enough over the distance and hilly terrain they had covered in the pursuit.
The platoon used the opportunity to replenish water canteens. Each man had to chlorinate the water as even clean running water could carry deadly diseases such as leptospirosis. No matter how thirsty they were, they knew that they could not take a drink for at least thirty minutes in order to allow the foul-tasting chemical to take effect. Thirty minutes was a long time for such thirsty men.
‘Sergeant, we will backtrack and get into a position to contact BHQ,’ Lieutenant Gauden finally said after his assessment of the situation. Radio communication was vital for the safety of his men and he would let his commanding officer make the decision as to the future of the patrol. They could return in the knowledge that they had struck a blow against the local insurgents with only the regret that two had got away.
When radio comms were re-established, the order came down from BHQ to terminate the patrol and return to base. Three days later the weary men of the platoon were taking hot showers and drinking cold beer. It was a relief from the arduous conditions of the rainforest where leeches, deadly disease-carrying mites, heat exhaustion and never-ending thirst were part of the day-to-day life of jungle patrols. They had at least returned in the knowledge that their patrol had eliminated two more CTs, and Terituba was recommended for a Mentioned in Dispatches for his skill in locating the enemy campsite. The recommendation was not greeted with great delight by the Aboriginal man from central Queensland because it meant he had to shout the members of his platoon at the other ranks’ canteen.
*
Major Karl Mann was head and shoulders above the Malay police gathered in the small compound. They stood either side of a thin Chinese man whose bedraggled appearance spoke of a harsh life.
‘He is giving himself in,’ said a young Chinese man.
‘How much has he said?’ Karl asked his interpreter.
‘He say he come all way from Thai border,’ the Chinese interpreter replied. ‘He say Sam Po his boss.’
Karl gave the interpreter a look of interest. ‘You are sure he said Sam Po?’
‘Yes. I don’t think he tell lie.’
Karl Mann had been tasked with hunting down the man reputed to have killed the British high commissioner and who had risen through the ranks to command a unit infamous for its savage treatment of isolated villagers, both Malay and Chinese.
‘Tell the officer in charge to have our man brought to the office. I want to question him further about Comrade Po,’ Karl said, and the interpreter switched to Malay to pass on the order.
The frightened man was escorted inside and sat down on a rickety chair beside an equally battered table. Karl sat behind the table and two Malay policemen and his interpreter stood beside the door of the tiny room. Behind Karl was a large coloured map of Malaya.
‘Ask our man if he can point out where he last saw Sam Po,’ Karl said and carefully watched the demeanour of the prisoner as he was questioned.
‘He say he can show us on map where Sam Po has his main camp.’
‘Good,’ Karl nodded. ‘Get him to point it out on the map behind me.’
The frightened prisoner studied the map for a moment and then placed his finger on a spot just above the Thai border. He said something in Chinese and Karl indicated to him to resume his seat.
‘Interesting,’ Karl mused. Po’s main camp was in an isolated area of rugged terrain. Karl remembered reading in the Australian battalions intelligence summary a few days earlier about a contact one of the platoons had made only a few miles south of this position. Apparently they had killed two CTs but a couple had escaped. Karl knew they had taken photographs of the dead men and wondered if they had killed the notorious leader. The only man he knew who could positively confirm Po was one of the dead was sitting trembling opposite him.
‘Tell our man that he will not be harmed and that, in fact, he is a special guest of the Malayan government and will be rewarded for his co-operation. However, he will have to stay with us for a
little longer before he is released.’
The interpreter passed on the message meant as reassurance. Yet, as the man looked up, Karl could see absolute fear in his eyes. Sam Po was a very dangerous enemy, and if he got wind of the fact this man was informing against him, his retribution would be cruel and deadly.
*
Detective Senior Constable Brendan Wren removed his hat when he entered Sean Duffy’s office. Harry Griffiths was sitting in a chair, smoking a cigarette, and Brendan nodded a greeting. The meeting had been arranged discreetly so that Brendan’s superiors would not be aware of his relationship with the formidable criminal lawyer.
‘Good that you could get time off to make this meeting,’ Sean said. He did not get up from behind his desk as the joints with his artificial legs were giving him some pain today. ‘Take a seat. So, do you have anything new in your investigation?’
Brendan shook his head. ‘Before he retired, Preston had many files disappear concerning the hit-and-run,’ he said. ‘About all I have is my own memory and a few sketchy notes I was able to write in my notebook. I did learn that Miss Macintosh’s father died of an accidental fall at her home before the death of Miss Lowe.’
‘I am surprised you were not aware of that,’ Sean said. ‘It was all over the news at the time.’
‘I was in my last year of school when it happened,’ Brendan said. ‘About all I was interested in then was the comic section of the newspapers. I liked Ginger Meggs.’
Sean smiled. He also liked the Ginger Meggs cartoons. ‘I know Sir George’s death was ruled as accidental by the coroner, but Harry and I are naturally cynical people, and it just so happened that he died the day before he was going to announce his heir to the throne. Knowing the man as we did, we would never have bet on him appointing his daughter as head of the Macintosh companies. We have always suspected that Sarah Macintosh killed her own father.’
Brendan swore quietly.
‘You can bet that without Preston on her side she would not have been able to get away it. But the old bastard was too smart to leave any evidence.’
‘You know,’ Harry said with a smile, ‘retired coppers have a habit of keeping bits of their past with them in their retirement. Old files – and one or two pieces of evidence that always seem to disappear after a case is closed. I bet if we could get into his house up the coast we’d find something interesting.’
Sean grinned at Harry.
‘There’s not a hope in hell that we could get a warrant to search his place,’ Brendan said. ‘He still has a lot of friends in high places.’
‘In my world,’ Harry said, ‘a warrant is a jemmy and torch.’
‘You mean a break-in?’ Brendan said aghast.
‘You didn’t hear that from me,’ Harry replied. ‘Besides, I am too old to go climbing through windows in the middle of the night. But I do know a couple of young blokes who might be up to it.’
‘I don’t suppose you’re going to mention their names in front of me,’ Brendan grinned.
‘Not likely,’ Harry said. ‘You’d go out and arrest them.’
‘How much to hire them?’ Sean asked.
‘Gentlemen, I think this is my cue to say adieu and let you get on with your conversation,’ said Brendan. ‘As they say, I was never here.’ He rose and shook hands with the two old villains, then left the office.
‘Let’s do it,’ Sean said. ‘After all, what have we got to lose? We still have Jessie working at her end to assist but no results at this stage.’
Harry beamed at him. It would be like old times when they were young men.
SIX
Sean and Harry sat in a corner of the bar of the hotel they had frequented for as long as they could remember.
‘They pulled out,’ Harry said over his beer. ‘When I told them whose place I wanted them to go after, they said it would be suicide. Preston’s name still inspires fear.’
Sean Duffy stared bleakly into his empty glass. ‘Then it looks like you and I will have to do the break-in.’
‘Look at us!’ Harry exclaimed. ‘A couple of old coots with medical problems – you with your dicky legs and me with my dicey ticker. Breaking into houses is a young man’s job.’
‘It doesn’t seem so long ago we were crawling around no-man’s-land under fire in the dark,’ Sean said.
‘Cobber, that was forty years ago,’ Harry said, finishing his beer in one swallow.
‘It’s so bloody strange that our bodies age but our minds stay young,’ Sean reflected. ‘All we have to do is get into Preston’s place when we know he and his missus are not home, have a look around, then leave. It won’t matter if he discovers his place has been burglarised. We wear gloves to leave no fingerprints and cover our tracks. It is the only hope of possibly finding anything that may prove to be useful. As you said, retired coppers have a habit of keeping old files of cases they were involved in.’
‘I’m not convinced this is a good idea,’ Harry said. ‘What if we get caught?’
‘That doesn’t sound like the Harry Griffiths I’ve always known,’ Sean said. ‘After all, you’ll have your legal brief with you if you’re caught.’
Sean’s attempt at humour raised a smile on Harry’s face. ‘Okay, let’s do it,’ he sighed. ‘What plan do you have?’
Sean leaned forward across the small table, taking out his fountain pen and a sheet of blank paper. ‘Preston’s house is just up from Palm Beach,’ Sean said, commencing a sketch of his plan. ‘There is a dirt track leading to it, but we will not be approaching from the land. I have a little cabin cruiser at Avalon Beach near my beach shack. We will be making a seaward approach on our target, preferably on a moonless or cloudy night. We beach the cruiser and make our way from there to his house.’
‘Bloody hell, Major, you make it sound like a military operation.’
‘Old habits die hard,’ Sean smiled. ‘I reckon that even a legless man could get up the beach, into the house and out before you can say Jack Robinson. The only thing we have to know is when Preston is likely to be away from his residence for a good period of time.’
‘Well, I can tell you that,’ Harry said. ‘A mate of mine who knows Preston from the old days told me that Preston is driving up to Queensland for a holiday with his missus in a couple of weeks’ time.’
‘Perfect,’ Sean said. ‘All I have to do is check the phases of the moon. When the time is right, you can pack your fishing rod and we will depart just before last light to motor north. The only thing that could stop us is bad weather.’
‘I get seasick,’ Harry said. ‘That’s why I never joined the navy in 1915, although I suspected then they might not see a lot of action like we saw on the Western Front.’
‘You will be too exhilarated to get seasick,’ Sean reassured. ‘This is a lot easier than being sent into the trenches. It’s just a simple beach landing.’
‘Yeah, they said that about Gallipoli,’ Harry noted miserably.
The two men ordered another round of beers. They might have convinced themselves that the operation was no big deal, but they both knew the best laid plans of battle often went to pieces when the first shot was fired.
*
With Preston confirmed on his way to Queensland and the house deserted, Sean waited in the late afternoon at his beach shack. The conditions could not be better: calm seas and a new moon. Sean’s beach retreat was no mansion – a fibro house with one bedroom and very little in the way of furniture – but it was in the dunes overlooking the beach and a good place to do some beach fishing. His small clinker-built cabin cruiser was on a rail system and winch to allow him to let the boat rattle down to the water’s edge.
He was loading a couple of fishing rods when he heard a car pull into his driveway behind the house. Two doors slammed closed and Sean watched as Harry appeared around the corner with his son in tow. Sean knew Harry’s son well. H
e had helped Daniel get his commission in the Royal Australian Navy during the war, for which Harry had been extremely grateful. Daniel was tall and slim and owned a successful real estate business in the expanding city suburbs.
‘Hello, Major,’ Daniel greeted, and Sean cast a quizzical look at Harry.
‘I figured we could do with some naval help,’ Harry shrugged.
‘Dad told me what you two were up to,’ Daniel grinned. ‘I reckon you’re both a couple of galahs, but I think the army will be in need of help from the navy on this mission.’
‘You must realise that what we are doing is illegal.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Daniel replied. ‘Selling real estate is not exactly adrenaline-pumping work. Besides, he’s my old man and I can do no less than have his back. Maybe after this you might be able to convince him to come and live with me and the family.’
Harry had always fought offers to live with his son as he liked the culture of the inner city where his gym had once been a very important meeting place for young men learning to become boxers. But the gym was destined to be bulldozed to make way for the city’s unrelenting progress.
‘I promise you that when we pull off this job I will personally drag your old man kicking and screaming to your place,’ Sean said with a smile. ‘Welcome aboard the team.’
The boat was launched and the three men boarded. The engine kicked over and Sean gave Daniel the wheel to steer the boat out through the surf. They turned north and, as the sun began to set over the hills on their portside, the boat pitched and rolled in the swell. Harry was already hanging over the side being sick, and cursing Sean and his son. Both laughed at Harry’s suffering.
Eventually they found themselves off the beach below Preston’s house. The night was pitch black and all that could be seen were a couple of electric lights burning in houses neighbouring Preston’s residence.
