From the Stars Above

by Peter Watt

  ‘Yet it is obvious that you know the chronicles of King Arthur,’ Sally said. ‘And you don’t sound like a simple soldier.’

  ‘I’m not sure if that’s a compliment,’ Patrick replied. ‘Are you a nurse from Butterworth?’

  ‘Why would you presume that?’ Sally countered. ‘Have you had a lot of experience with nurses?’

  ‘Not really,’ Patrick replied quickly. ‘It’s just that there are not that many pretty young women over here who are not in the armed forces.’

  ‘Well, I am not a nurse. I work for my father’s import-export business in Malaya.’

  ‘Kind of nice meeting a civilian.’

  ‘Is this your first time in Malaya?’ Sally asked.

  ‘I was here as a very young kid when the Japs invaded. My mother owned an aircraft business operating out of Singapore. She was a pilot.’

  ‘Your mother sounds like a very interesting woman. Is she still in Singapore?’

  ‘My mother died in Changi,’ Patrick answered. ‘So I guess, yes, she is still in Singapore.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Sally said. ‘I lost my mother in London in the Blitz. My father has raised me and I have travelled the world with him. Have you travelled widely?’

  ‘Only to places where you have to carry a gun,’ Patrick said. ‘This is the first so far.’

  Patrick realised that he found Sally very attractive. Her cascade of red hair complemented her emerald green eyes. But with a sinking heart he knew this might be the only time they met, as she was obviously from a wealthy background and leave from military operations was a rare thing. Soldiers in war zones tended to snatch love for brief moments, knowing that it was fleeting. This felt different to Patrick.

  They climbed out of the pool and made their way to the shade of a great mango tree, spreading their towels on the lawn under its shade. Conversation seemed to come easy between Patrick and Sally, and he noticed that he could make her laugh. He sensed that she felt comfortable in his company.

  Midday drifted into late afternoon and Patrick realised that he would have to take the ferry back to the mainland or be charged with being absent without leave.

  ‘I would like to see you again,’ he said, holding his breath and waiting for the rejection.

  ‘I would like that,’ Sally said. ‘I’ll give you a telephone number where I can be contacted next time you get leave.’

  For a moment it did not sink in that the beautiful young woman had accepted his invitation. Sally took a small notebook from the bag beside her, scribbled down her number and handed it to Patrick. ‘You be very careful out in the jungle, Patrick,’ she said. ‘I am expecting you to take me out to dinner next time we meet.’

  Patrick walked away as if floating on air, clutching the scrap of paper that linked him to the enchanting lady of the lake.

  When he met up with the members of his platoon waiting for the ferry, Terituba asked him, ‘Where you bin?’

  ‘To Camelot,’ Patrick grinned.

  ‘Is that near Rockhampton?’ Terituba asked.

  ‘Try England,’ Patrick replied.

  For a moment Terituba stared at Patrick. ‘Only ol’ Wallarie could fly to England on the wings of an eagle,’ he said, suddenly serious.

  The order came to board the ferry and the men of Patrick’s platoon shuffled aboard. The two-day leave had done damage to many and a rest back at the barracks was a welcome thought. But when they finally returned, they were met by a grim-faced Gauden and an equally stern-looking company sergeant major.

  ‘Welcome home, men,’ Lieutenant Gauden greeted them. ‘Tomorrow morning at 0500 hours you are to assemble outside my office for a briefing. You will parade sober, healthy and ready for a very important mission. Full patrol kit.’

  Patrick noticed the impressively built Australian major walk up behind Lieutenant Gauden, who turned to salute him. Patrick had never seen this officer before, but he could tell from the rows of ribands on his chest that he had seen action in both the last war and Korea.

  Lieutenant Gauden turned to address his platoon. ‘Men, this is Major Mann. He will be working with us on our next op.’

  Patrick could see that the major was scanning the faces of each and every soldier. When the major’s gaze settled on Patrick, he could sense the fire and steel in this new officer. Major Mann was as big as Private Ted Morrow, but he struck Patrick as far more menacing. Patrick instinctively knew that the attachment of the unknown officer meant something big was in the air and he felt a shiver of both excitement and fear.

  Sally’s words echoed in his mind . . . Be very careful out in the jungle, Patrick.

  EIGHT

  Sarah Macintosh had just walked out of a dismal meeting with the principal accountants of the Macintosh enterprises. Some of the investments to expand had gone wrong and the overall profit had taken a hammering. As she drove her Bentley into the driveway of the Macintosh mansion overlooking Sydney Harbour, her mind was on a stiff gin and tonic.

  There was no longer a butler to greet her at the entrance to the home that had been in her family’s possession for over a century. At least Miss Keevers would have cooked a fine meal for her and Charles – not that Sarah had much of an appetite as she went over the losses the companies were suffering even in this time of economic boom.

  The confidence that always glimmered in her eyes had dimmed as the years had gone by, and she knew she looked as tired as she felt. She slept badly at nights, haunted by ghosts of her father and the woman who had once been her best friend. In public she was always elegant and confident, but out of the spotlight she felt her life was a hollow shell.

  ‘Bad day by the look on your face,’ said her estranged husband, Charles Huntley, who was sitting at the end of the long polished dining table, drink in hand.

  Sarah went to the liquor cabinet to pour herself a gin and tonic. ‘You could say that,’ she said, retrieving a cigarette from a silver case. ‘Profits are down across the board and we are badly in need of new strategies.’

  ‘I read in today’s financial section of the paper that your sister-in-law is looking at investing in mining exploration in Western Australia,’ Charles said.

  Sarah glanced at the newspaper spread out on the table and noticed that Charles had been filling in a crossword. She tolerated him under her roof for her son’s sake but otherwise he was virtually useless in her life. As a decorated fighter ace he was a good handbag at social occasions, but Sarah sought her pleasure in the arms of other lovers.

  ‘Mining,’ she said. ‘Most of the gold in WA has been taken out of the ground. I doubt she will do any good in that sector.’

  ‘From what I read,’ Charles said, ‘she is more interested in locating deposits of iron ore and other metals. You have to remember that her father got the jump on you investing in wool after the war, so maybe you should keep a close eye on what she is up to.’

  Sarah picked up the paper and saw a black and white photo of Jessica Duffy-Macintosh staring back at her with a smug expression. Even after giving birth to three children she still looked youthful. Donald, Jessica’s husband and Sarah’s brother, was rarely seen in her company, no doubt because of his grotesquely scarred face. Apparently he preferred to work the Glen View cattle station and from what Sarah had heard, the years had only strengthened the love her brother and Jessica had for each other.

  ‘Have you ever considered a company merger with your sister-in-law?’ Charles said.

  ‘That will never happen,’ Sarah snapped. ‘If anything, the bitch will overextend herself in this fruitless venture in WA, and I will make an offer on her companies when she comes grovelling on her knees to me.’

  She flipped the pages of the paper and froze. There was an article about a federal by-election in northern New South Wales and attached was a photo of David Macintosh, her cousin. Almost a quarter of a century had passed since she had fir
st laid eyes on him in a Berlin cafe, and yet he was still as desirable to her as ever.

  ‘I see that you have noticed David is running for a seat in parliament,’ Charles said, reading the shocked expression on her face. ‘I think he will make a fine representative for his electorate.’ Charles was aware of his wife’s obsession with David, although they had not spoken about it for many years.

  ‘I don’t care what he does,’ Sarah said, closing the paper.

  ‘Oh, a letter came from Michael,’ Charles said and passed her the opened envelope.

  Sarah took it and began to read. Michael wrote that he was settling in to his new school and that he had made contact with the White family in London. The Whites were relatives of the Macintosh family, as many years earlier Granville White had married Fiona Macintosh. Sarah only knew of his existence because she had read Lady Enid’s diary. The White family had made a fortune in trade with the East India Company in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and had only grown richer in the years since. The London residence was just one of many the White family owned across Britain. Michael said they had received him warmly. He had made the rowing team and was in the Seconds rugby team. He had included an academic record in his letter and Sarah could see it was excellent. He said the boys were a bit snobby, but his distant connection to the White family helped break down the barriers between a colonial and the sons of the English upper class.

  Sarah felt a strong link with her son when she read the letter. After all, it would be he who would one day inherit the family business. Sometimes it frightened Sarah to think all her aspirations were centred on her son. What if he rejected taking over the Macintosh Enterprises and sought another life? How much had he inherited of his real father, David Macintosh? David had always been a restless soul. Sarah shook away the thoughts; there was no question of Michael not obeying her in this – he was her son and he would do as she demanded.

  Sarah finished her drink, refilled the glass and took it upstairs to the library, leaving Charles to his crossword puzzle.

  *

  Major Karl Mann sat in the small room allocated to him beside the officers’ mess. In the dim light he read the top-secret file on Comrade Sam Po that had been sent to him by Featherstone from Singapore.

  Karl learned that Sam Po had been a prisoner in Changi during the war. His European father and Chinese mother had both died, and a British woman, Diane Duffy, had assumed the role of foster mother in the infamous Japanese prison. She had also died in Changi, and the boy had disappeared, reappearing on the back streets of Singapore, where he was taken in by a Chinese merchant and his family – now revealed as members of the Malayan Communist Party. Their daughter, a nurse, had died whilst in British custody, and it was known that Sam Po had sworn vengeance. It was rumoured that, when he was barely more than a kid, he had killed the British high commissioner in a road ambush, and that this had helped him rise through the ranks of his district party. His group had proved to be the most vicious and effective insurgent force in the area of operations currently under the control of the Australian battalion. Now the intelligence placed Sam Po just over the Thai border.

  Karl had requested the best platoon in the battalion be seconded to him, and the CO had nominated Patrick’s platoon under the command of one of his most capable officers, Mr Gauden.

  Karl checked his field equipment and cleaned the non-issue 1911 Browning semi-automatic pistol. He liked the weapon because the hard-hitting .45 rounds were known to be knockdown killers at close range. He then destroyed the thin sheets of paper in the file with his lighter, dropping the burning pages into a metal wastepaper bin. Satisfied, he turned off the light to snatch a few hours’ sleep before the mess batman came to wake him with a cup of tea in the very early hours of the morning. The only thing that played on his mind was the last directive in the file for his eyes only. Should Sam Po be tracked to Thai territory, he was to lead the searchers across the border in an unauthorised intrusion of Thai sovereignty. He very much hoped it would not come to that.

  *

  An early breakfast was provided for the men of Patrick’s platoon and the company sergeant major had organised their rations, ammunition and other bits of kit. Patrick had his Owen replaced with a heavy FN 7.62 semi-automatic rifle. He could see that Ted had been issued with a Bren gun. They would be carrying around eighty pounds of weight, although that would reduce as they used up their rations.

  ‘Attention!’ Lieutenant Gauden called, and Patrick rose to his feet.

  ‘Stand easy,’ commanded the big Australian major who had just entered the hut, and the men relaxed. ‘Trucks will arrive to take us to our jump-off point. From the intelligence I received, I believe that it was you men who almost caught up with a much sought-after member of the CTs, Sam Po, on one of your patrols. This time we are going to finish the job and either capture or kill him. You will be out in the scrub for an indefinite time, and if necessary we will be resupplied by air. Are there any questions?’ There were no questions and the major turned to the platoon commander. ‘Mr Gauden, your parade.’

  The platoon commander saluted the major as he strode out of the hut.

  Before sunrise the trucks arrived and the men piled in. Within hours they leapt out at the edge of one of the new settlements and proceeded to navigate towards the primal forests of the mountain range. As usual it was exhausting under the tropical sun and soldiers’ thoughts turned inward to take their minds off the arduous conditions they were suffering. For Patrick, it was a case of trying to remember Sally’s every feature as the sweat rolled down his face and the leeches from the swamp they were crossing attached themselves to his body.

  Beside him, big Ted grunted with each step carrying the Bren gun and extra ammunition. On the other side of Patrick, Terituba softly hummed a popular Elvis Presley tune. Patrick could not shake the feeling he had that this patrol was not going to go well.

  *

  Sam Po lay on his back staring up at the few stars he could see through the canopy of branches above his camp. Not far away his small group of men slept after the exhausting trek through the jungles and mountains into southern Thailand. They could rest without sentries because the British were forbidden to undertake military operations in this part of the world.

  The Thai army was not interested in hunting them down – so long as they caused no trouble in Thailand – and this was their sanctuary.

  Unfortunately they had little in the way of food, as it was difficult to obtain in Thai territory – unless there was money to purchase it from the local villagers. His comrades had suffered too much privation, and they were rapidly becoming a non-functional force, but at least one of the men who had recently joined his party had brought with him a captured Bren gun and a good supply of ammunition. It was now very precarious to raid villages in the area of operations of the Australian battalion. The Australians were extremely active in long-range patrols, setting up ambushes along trails and watching kampongs and villages for any strangers coming or going.

  Sam knew that he had to obtain money to continue his guerrilla campaign. As reluctant as he was to leave his men, he could trust his second-in-command, Comrade Ching, while he made a journey south to contact party HQ and request money for food and medical supplies.

  The following morning Sam briefed his men. He wondered as he scanned their thin faces which of them would take advantage of his absence to desert and surrender.

  Armed with nothing more than a Webley Scott revolver and twelve rounds of pistol ammunition, Sam set out through the forests alone. He knew it was a dangerous journey as this was a land of tigers and elephants and the pistol was not much protection against the big predator cats. But years of living the life of an insurgent had toughened him in body and soul. The pocketful of cooked rice would sustain him and he would supplement it with rainforest fruits.

  *

  On the third day of the long-range patrol, Patrick
’s platoon had reached its first RV point. Navigation had been with map and compass, carefully making magnetic adjustments to the bearings. Appointed soldiers kept count of paces taken on the bearing in this world with no clear landmarks to march to.

  Lieutenant Stan Gauden sat in the dim light of the forest in a small clearing where a storm had brought down a few of the older, rotten tree giants. The men could see the sky and the tropical clouds brewing into a storm. Two-man hoochies – small tents – were quickly erected in a defensive perimeter to be on guard against any possible attack.

  Major Karl Mann and Lieutenant Gauden conferred on their position and their locstat was radioed to the rear support. Soon a small single-engine Auster was flying towards the grid reference they had transmitted. The sound of the aircraft overhead confirmed that their navigation was spot on and both officers were relieved.

  It was then that a strange coded message was sent for Major Mann. Only he had the special codebook to decipher the message and Lieutenant Gauden watched curiously as the major translated the message by torchlight hidden by a ground sheet. When he was finished he took a map and placed it on the ground between himself and Gauden.

  ‘There has been a change in coordinates for the CT camp,’ Karl said. ‘The new grid reference from the latest intelligence places it approximately here.’ He pointed to an area on the map.

  ‘But that is in Thailand,’ Gauden said. ‘Standard operating procedure says that we cannot cross the border.’

  ‘I will be fully responsible for the decision, Mr Gauden,’ Karl said. ‘The authorisation comes from beyond your CO’s level of command. If anything should eventuate it will simply be put down to bad navigation, and not an intention to trespass on Thai sovereignty.’

  ‘With respect, sir, do I brief my section commanders on our incursion?’ Lieutenant Gauden asked.