by Peter Watt
‘It seems sound enough,’ the CO nodded. ‘I will hold you personally responsible if any of my men are killed, Major Mann.’
‘I accept the responsibility, sir,’ Karl answered. ‘But I think this is the best chance we have had to get Sam Po – away from his support across the border.’
‘You have some work to do, so I will dismiss you to your duties with my wishes of good hunting,’ the CO said.
Karl still had his cap on and saluted the CO before he left the office. Already a confused platoon commander stood in the orderly room, still dressed in his grime-stained jungle greens.
‘Ah, Mr Gauden,’ Karl said with a grim smile. ‘You and your men have been given another crack at Sam Po. I will brief you on the walk back to the barracks.’
The patrol over, Patrick and the rest of the platoon were back in barracks. The rest of the company was making sweeps through the kampongs in the area of operations. Time again for hot showers and cooked food eaten at a table, rather than cold rations under the canopy of the rainforest giants. Patrick was about to shed his jungle greens when someone called, ‘Attention!’
Every soldier jumped to his feet. From the corner of his eye, Patrick could see the big major enter the long room, followed by Lieutenant Gauden.
‘Stand easy, men. It is with the CO’s apologies that some of you will be required to forgo your stand-down. I know Major Mann is no stranger to you, and he will be working with us.’
‘It’s not a social call then, sir,’ a soldier quipped, raising a smile from the major.
‘I’m afraid not, soldier,’ he replied. ‘Mr Gauden will call out the names of the men who I will be briefing at his office in five minutes. All will be revealed then. Your parade, Mr Gauden.’
With that, Major Mann turned and walked out of the barracks. Lieutenant Gauden called out the names of eight men, and neither Patrick nor Terituba was surprised to hear their names on the list. They reported to the platoon commander’s office.
‘We have received intelligence that Sam Po is supposed to go to a dead-letter drop within this twenty-four hour period,’ Major Mann said to the small group of soldiers gathered around in the cramped office. ‘The location will be a hut here.’ He pointed to a spot on the map spread out on Lieutenant Gauden’s desk. ‘We will be waiting for him. To execute the operation, you will approach the hut in the garb of local farmers. You will carry only a side-arm or Sten as they are more easily concealed. Each man is to draw his weapon from the armoury, and only two mags of ammo. I expect the operation will be over in twenty-four hours, and we will return to the barracks.’
Within an hour the section had changed into native clothing and drawn their weapons from the armoury. A truck took them within a mile of the kampong and dropped them off out of view, and the section, led by Major Mann, set off on foot just as the sun was going down over the tops of the distant jungle-covered mountains. Two men left the group to take up a concealed position that had line of sight on the hut, while the others ambled down the narrow track like farmers returning home after a day in the fields.
With great caution they entered the derelict hut and in the gloom saw that it was vacant. A quick search turned up a cache of rice and documents concealed under a straw-weave mat. It was obvious that their prey had not yet reached the hut, and now it was only a matter of waiting.
*
It had been a long and dangerous journey for Sam Po and his comrade, Chin San. But they were only a few hours’ march from the native hut at the edge of the kampong. Both men were hungry as their meagre ration of rice had run out two days earlier. At least water had been accessible from small pools after the heavy rains.
‘Very soon, Comrade Chin.’ Sam encouraged his weaker companion as they continued to move cautiously towards their target and the sun began its journey down behind the mountain tops. Sam knew he was well within the area of operations of the Australian Army and so ambush was a constant fear. To reach the hut meant a small stock of food but, more importantly, a cache of money to purchase more food from local farmers in their own area of operations. There would also be correspondence from the central committee as to future strategies in their guerrilla war. Sam was disappointed that the people had not risen up to support them, and that the revolution to impose a Communist state in Malaya was becoming little more than a dream. Sam had sworn an oath to die for the revolution – unlike the many men now deserting to the government forces who generously rewarded them with cash and land.
Just after sunset Sam saw the hut, but he did not rush in despite his need for food. First, he would sit off the hut in a concealed hide and observe. He had to be sure that his target had not been compromised. His companion would go to the village to make contact with a Communist sympathiser and then report back to Sam. If Sam was satisfied all was safe, they would use the cover of night to enter the hut. It was this kind of caution that had kept him alive for so long.
*
After a couple of hours Chin returned to Sam.
‘The comrade has been observing the hut all day and said that all he saw was a group of farmers passing by just on sunset. He has seen no sign of enemy soldiers.’
‘Did he know the farmers?’ Sam asked.
‘He said that he did not know the farmers but he could not see them clearly as it was getting dark.’
Sam mulled over the information. Only a handful of trusted comrades knew of him travelling to this location but news of the farmers disturbed him. Yet when he glanced at Chin he could see how starved he was, and he knew the food was vital. It was a small risk and he would have to take it.
He gave the order to approach the hut, now a dim shape in the light of the rising moon. Sam had his pistol in his hand and his finger on the trigger. Chin was similarly armed and as alert as his leader.
Inside the hut the men had spread themselves out and held their own weapons ready to use. They also held flashlights, as Major Mann had expected a night contact.
‘They’re coming,’ he whispered. ‘Two of them.’
Each man felt the rush of adrenaline and fear. In the next few moments, and in the close confines of the hut, bullets would find targets in soft flesh.
The rickety wooden door creaked open and, for a split second, a figure filled the entrance. The gunfire erupted and Chin hardly knew what hit him as the bullets tore into his body.
The second man turned and began to sprint away. Patrick pushed himself past the door and over the body of the slain CT. He could see the man running in the moonlight and took after him before he could reach a series of rice paddy levees nearby. Patrick stopped for a moment, caught his breath and levelled his pistol to fire off two shots. With more luck than skill, one of his bullets caused the CT to stumble and fall. Patrick began running and, just as he reached the prone figure, the man suddenly sat up and fired three rapid shots at Patrick. He felt one of the rounds clip the lower part of his earlobe and he returned fire, emptying his pistol into the man only a few paces away. The shots found their target, and the CT fell back, dropping his pistol. Both men were out of ammunition but Patrick could see that the CT was alive and critically wounded.
‘Are you Sam Po?’ Patrick asked, kneeling down beside him.
Though Patrick knew from briefings that the man spoke English, he did not answer; instead, he lay back to stare at the moon on the horizon.
A pistol shot cracked near Patrick’s head, startling him, and he saw that the shot had been to the CT’s head.
When Patrick turned he saw Major Mann standing behind him, gun by his side. ‘I am sure that is Sam Po,’ the major said as the rest of the section gathered around, shining their lights on the infamous terrorist.
‘Who was this bloke, sir?’ Patrick asked, staring at the face of the young man he could see was around his own age.
‘He was an interesting character,’ said Major Mann. ‘When he was young he was a prisoner of the
Japs in Changi where he was looked after by an Aussie woman by the name of Diane Duffy – until she died on the last day of the war. Then he disappeared until we first heard of him as the killer of the governor back in 1951 and subsequent leader of one of the most ruthless CT units in northern Malaya.’
Patrick’s head was ringing. Diane Duffy! How many women in Changi would have been called Diane Duffy?
‘If I may ask you, sir, did this Diane Duffy ever own an air transport business before the war?’
‘She did,’ the major answered quietly, putting together the pieces from all the files he had read. ‘Diane Duffy was your mother, wasn’t she? I had no idea there was a connection.’
Patrick nodded, and felt the major’s hand on his shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, Private Duffy. It’s seems almost unbelievable that this man had a connection to your mother.’
Patrick got slowly to his feet and walked back to the hut on his own.
How bloody ironic life was, he thought, that his own mother would be the carer of a future Communist terrorist. But had she survived, maybe Sam Po would never have become a CT in the first place and lived with him in Australia as his adopted brother.
Part Two
Konfrontasi and the Congo
1964
FOURTEEN
Sweat, fear and the heavy weight of the FN self-loading rifle in Michael Macintosh’s hands were the reality of his present. The strong and pungent smell of the African Congo was accentuated by the tropical heat that baked the road leading to the township of Kindu on the banks of the Lualaba River. It was a long way from the galley of his cargo ship, upon which he had travelled the globe for six years. But an advertisement whilst he was in Cape Town, South Africa, had brought him to his present reality of belonging to a mercenary force led by the colourful Mike Hoare.
The advertisement had called for fit and able-bodied men to enlist. Military experience was not necessary as the civilians would be given special training once they had been accepted to the force. Michael had returned to his ship, tendered his resignation, packed his few belongings and joined up.
He was not sure why he had chosen the life of a soldier of fortune, but at just over twenty-one years of age, single, and by now bored with his life in the ship’s kitchen, he had felt the call to adventure. After passing the entry requirements, Michael had been flown to the Congo aboard a chartered DC3 to join the commandoes being put together by Colonel Hoare. Michael had undergone intensive physical and military training once he joined in a war where the former English soldier wrote the manual on tactics against the brutal Communist-inspired rebels, known to the Western press as Simbas.
Many who had joined with Michael had fallen out when the first shots had been fired. Some had been dismissed because they were deemed not fit enough to be in a disciplined force, while others simply resigned. But Michael was very fit and self-disciplined. In his travels around the world aboard his ship he had continued to study. He had learned an oriental art of unarmed combat ashore in Hong Kong, and already understood weapons handling from his time on Glen View.
As Michael stood awaiting orders from his commando leader, he reflected on a confrontation with the dreaded Simbas, as his column had advanced on the provincial capital, when he had shot and killed many of the rebels as they charged head on, shouting their war cry of Mai Mulele.
They were not the first; he had killed many in the days leading up to the assault on the town. Even in his first experience of combat he had been able to overcome his intense fear and put his training into practice. He was thankful that many around him were seasoned soldiers of many nationalities. He had even noticed one seasoned officer wearing the Iron Cross of the Wehrmacht.
They were now only two kilometres from the township and the vehicle column halted and the mercenaries jumped out onto the road. Air cover would be called in to strafe the rebel emplacements with eight .50 calibre machine guns and rockets before the assault by the infantry. Reports had come back from the Cuban pilots flying propeller-driven aircraft that the enemy was reinforcing the southern edge of the town in anticipation of an attack. The Cuban pilots were exiles who opposed Fidel Castro and proved to be very fine flyers.
Like the others of his unit, Michael carried out a thorough check of his weapons. He had honed his bayonet the night before as hand-to-hand combat was not unknown in this war. In the distance they could hear the crump of explosions as the rockets struck, and the continuous sound of assorted small-arms fire.
Sweat rolled down Michael’s dirty face, grimed with cordite and the red earth of the Congo.
‘Mount up!’ the call came, and the mercenaries scrambled aboard their transport for the final dash into the town, while the overhead aircraft circled and dived on the rebels below.
Michael had heard stories of Simba atrocities against the defenceless civilian population of the province. It was said that in Kindu a fourteen-year-old boy had been chosen as executioner in a bid to terrify the population into absolute submission. He would run up and down lines of kneeling men and women, hacking at them with a panga – a version of a machete – lopping off parts of their heads and bodies. When he was exhausted from his efforts of mutilating his victims, he would give the order to shoot them.
The Italians in the unit had a particular interest in the assault of Kindu as, three years earlier, eleven members of the Italian air force attached to the United Nations had landed there and were immediately arrested, hacked to pieces and parts of their bodies eaten in front of the cameras. It was a brutal war in which the so-called rebels were no more than organised bandits whose aims were less political than self-interested, and were expressed in rape, torture, murder, robbery and arson. The Simbas had been told by witchdoctors that they were impervious to bullets. This bolstered their courage when they attacked the outnumbered mercenaries and the legitimate Congolese troops, who often ran away when they learned that the Simbas were coming for them.
Michael had little interest in the politics of Africa, but he did have an interest in the fates of the European and Asian populations currently in the hands of the Simbas. Intelligence had learned that they were to be executed, and the attack might have the effect of rescuing them before the Simbas carried out their threat.
So close was the air support, Michael could hear the empty .50 calibre cartridges hitting the roof of the truck. Adrenaline was surging through his body, and for a moment he found himself thinking about his visit to London a couple of years earlier when his ship had been in port. He had been able to find Sir Ronald White’s address in Mayfair and had been greeted by the housekeeper from their country estate where Michael had first met Jane White and fallen in love with her.
The elderly housekeeper remembered Michael and greeted him warmly. However, she was sorry to have to tell him that Sir Ronald and Lady Georgina and their two daughters had moved to New York to live for a few years. ‘Two daughters?’ Michael had asked, and he thought that the housekeeper seemed a bit uncomfortable when she said Lady Georgina had given birth to a daughter not long after Michael had been forced to return to Australia. ‘Everyone was surprised,’ she said. ‘But sometimes late-life babies arrive very unexpectedly.’ She at least was kind enough to give him a postal address and Michael had written letters to Jane – none of which had received a reply.
Suddenly a row of machine-gun bullets ripped above Michael’s head and all thoughts of the past were gone. The killing was about to start again.
*
From the top floor of the office complex, Sally Howard-Smith stood gazing out over Sydney’s landscape of rising buildings and tall cranes. Her father’s idea of opening an office in the city reflected the growing importance of Australia in global trade, and she had been given the task of setting up and running the office.
She was twenty-seven years old and still a beauty. Her busy working life had not allowed for any steady relationship, although there had be
en a few affairs with very eligible men. Sally did not feel any pressure to settle down, as so many other young women her age did. Instead, she felt the satisfaction of helping build her father’s economic empire, and in her own right she was a very wealthy woman.
‘Miss Macintosh will see you now, Miss Howard-Smith,’ the voice of the secretary said behind Sally.
Sally followed the secretary through a door into a spacious office with views across the busy harbour. An attractive older woman rose from behind a great, polished teak desk and stepped forward to greet her.
‘Miss Howard-Smith, it is a pleasure to meet you in person,’ Sarah Macintosh said, taking Sally’s hand in a fleeting gesture of greeting. ‘Please, is there anything I can have fetched for you . . . tea, coffee?’
‘No, thank you,’ Sally replied as Sarah Macintosh ushered her to a leather lounge seat before a coffee table spread with coloured brochures advertising the Macintosh Enterprises.
‘I was fortunate to meet your father last year at a cocktail party when he was still considering opening an office in Sydney,’ Sarah Macintosh said, taking a seat in one of the leather chairs. ‘He is an impressive man.’
‘More like imposing,’ Sally said with a smile. ‘I suppose we should get down to business as I know you are a very busy woman, Miss Macintosh. I follow the financial reports and have a relatively good idea of your financial infrastructure.’
‘I, too, have read of your father’s burgeoning interests in Asia and the Pacific,’ Sarah Macintosh countered. Despite the apparent warmth between the two women, they each recognised in the other an inner core of steel.
‘I believe that you are prepared to sell your shares in two cargo ships currently operating,’ Sally said. ‘At the right price my father’s company is prepared to make an offer.’
