Papua

by Peter Watt

  ‘Are you sure that I could be of use?’ Paul asked. ‘I am not familiar with the country you talk about.’

  ‘Your general knowledge of New Guinea will be a great help to me,’ Sen assured him as they sat on the floor either side of the low table spread with food bowls and condiments. ‘The mission I have in mind is dangerous and most probably will come to nothing. But it is something I must do to appease my wife’s ancestors. I have a feeling that short of Jack Kelly you are the right man to lead the expedition. But I do not want Jack to know what you are to do. If he knew he would insist on going himself and I think it is time that he went south to see his son and make arrangements for his mining operation.’

  Paul shook Sen’s hand for the third time that night and sealed the deal. It certainly was a strange and most probably futile mission, but he could not afford to walk away from it. Meeting Jack Kelly under the circumstances of war had been a strange event in his life, and here they were again in the land that they had shared before the war. For Paul it had been New Guinea. For Jack it had been Papua. But both had survived the horror that had been the Western Front. Two men from opposing armies were now strangely bonded in peace.

  TWELVE

  Dademo shook Jack awake. The Australian felt as if his head would crack and he had trouble focussing on the houseboy standing over him. He was vaguely aware that it was morning. He could hear Sen’s wife’s singsong voice in lilting Chinese chiding a haus meri in the kitchen. Jack attempted to smile. The Papuan girl would not understand a word of the rebuke.

  ‘I got the arrow.’ Dademo stated it nervously. Possession of such an item provoked fears for its malevolent power. ‘It’s outside, Mr Jack.’

  Jack heaved himself into a sitting position. ‘Give me a couple of minutes and I will meet you down in the fernery,’ he groaned, holding his head. He had a nagging feeling that something had happened the previous day and he was not yet sure what it was.

  ‘I thought you might like a strong cup of tea,’ said a vaguely familiar voice. Jack turned his blurry vision on Paul who had entered the room as Dademo left.

  ‘Thanks,’ Jack replied, taking the mug of steaming tea from the German. ‘I just hope it clears a few cobwebs.’

  ‘I have news for you, my friend,’ Paul said with a beaming smile to hide the lie he must tell. ‘Your friend Mr Sen has given me a job working for his enterprises as a recruiter of native labourers.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Jack replied less than enthusiastically as he took his first sip. ‘Guess you will be around Papua a bit longer than you first figured.’

  ‘At least now I may be able to get accommodation for my wife and son and my sister Erika.’

  At the mention of Erika’s name Jack almost spilled the hot tea on his bare chest. During their drinking session the day before the two men had recounted their personal experiences on the Western Front but family had not been mentioned. ‘Did you say your sister was also with you?’ Jack asked, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘I thought she may have remained in Germany. There is not much to offer out here.’

  ‘Ah no,’ Paul sighed. ‘My sister will remain with me until she turns twenty-one. I do not think that she should be in Germany during these troubled times. I am afraid that she was falling into bad company. So she is with my wife and son in Townsville. I rented a house for them until I am settled here. Then they can join me in Papua or New Guinea.’

  The fog in Jack’s head was rapidly clearing as he remembered the beautiful and angelic face in the photograph that had been with him since the Hindenburg Line. His heart rate had suddenly doubled at the mention of how geographically close he was to her even now. Townsville was a stop for the Burns Philp steamer on its way south. ‘You know, I could drop in and pass on your regards to your family in Townsville on my way back to Sydney,’ he said. ‘Tell them that you are well and looking forward to them joining you soon.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ Paul replied. ‘I have spoken of you to my wife and I know she would be pleased to finally make your acquaintance. It would be a good omen to have you meet my family – for them to learn that there are Australians who are prepared to extend the hand of friendship to former enemies.’

  ‘Well, got to try and see if I can walk,’ Jack said putting the mug aside and heaving himself to his feet. ‘Have a lot to do today.’

  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ Paul said, grasping Jack’s hand.

  ‘For what?’ Jack replied.

  ‘For being a cobber.’

  Jack burst into a deep laugh. ‘You are learning,’ he said. ‘You will be a fair dinkum Aussie before you know it.’

  ‘What is fair dinkum?’ Paul questioned with a frown.

  ‘I will give you language lessons some time,’ Jack grinned. ‘You see, the way we Australians speak English is a bit different to the way the poms speak the language.’

  Paul thought he understood. The Australians spoke a dialect of the language just as people did in his homeland in the different regions of Germany.

  Jack skipped breakfast. His stomach was not up to food. He found Dademo hovering in the fernery. ‘Okay, where is it?’ Jack asked.

  Dademo retrieved the arrow from a niche in the rockery and handed it to Jack. He stared at the blood stained shaft.

  ‘This is a Kuku arrow,’ he said. ‘It’s not an arrow from around here.’

  ‘No, Mr Jack,’ Dademo agreed. ‘Looks like an arrow from the wild men up in the hill country.’

  ‘You think that they would have been down around Moresby at any time recently?’ Jack questioned.

  ‘Not the wild men from the hills,’ the houseboy replied, shaking his head. ‘I would know if they had.’

  ‘So it’s a plant, like I figured,’ Jack muttered as he turned the arrow over in his hands. ‘Thank you, Dademo, you did good.’

  Dademo beamed at the praise. Maybe the arrow did have strong magic.

  There was something Jack knew he must do before leaving for Sydney. He found Sen later that morning. The Chinese entrepreneur was overseeing a stock-take of stores for an expedition to be led by the German. He glanced with some curiosity as Jack approached with the arrow in his hand.

  ‘I don’t think your sister-in-law was murdered by local natives,’ Jack said by way of greeting. ‘In fact, I think there might be a slight chance that she is still alive.’

  Sen let out a long breath of air. ‘I have had my suspicions,’ he said. ‘We did not find her body.’

  ‘This arrow was found in Iris’s horse,’ Jack said, ‘and it’s not from around here. And one arrow will not kill a horse. My bet is that we would find a bullet in the horse if we went looking. A bullet to match this casing.’

  Jack produced the Mauser cartridge case which Sen recognised.

  ‘O’Leary,’ Sen stated and Jack nodded.

  ‘As good as any.’

  ‘But we do not have proof,’ Sen said, shaking his head. ‘He was last reported going west into the Fly River delta on a recruiting drive.’

  ‘That doesn’t discount the fact he may have done his mischief before he left.’

  Sen fell silent and turned away to stare at the pile of trade goods spread out on the floor of his shed. ‘I think I would prefer that Iris be dead rather than in the hands of that man,’ he finally said.

  Jack knew what he meant. O’Leary and his partner were men capable of unspeakable cruelty. ‘We have the means to find her,’ he said. ‘O’Leary will return to Moresby and I will get the truth out of him one way or the other.’

  When Sen glanced up Jack could see uncertainty etched in his face. ‘Maybe,’ he replied. ‘Would you like to partake of tea?’ he offered, suddenly changing the subject. ‘I think you have something else to talk to me about before you go south.’

  Jack pulled a pained expression. Sen was a very perceptive man. ‘There is something I want to talk to you about.’

  Sen sighed in relief. He did not want Jack to doggedly pursue the subject of O’Leary. The evening before he had shared his
secret with Paul Mann and sworn him to total silence on the events of his past. There were some matters that he could not include Jack Kelly in and this was one of them.

  On the verandah Jack sipped from his mug of steaming black tea. Sen held a dainty china cup filled with what looked like pale green water. He much preferred his green tea to the black brew from India.

  ‘You think that you have found enough gold to make a large scale mining operation feasible?’ Sen asked.

  ‘I think I found a mother lode,’ Jack replied. ‘But I am going to need a lot of money to get it out.’

  Sen sipped his tea and stared towards the gardens. ‘I know of a man in Sydney who might be able to help you out if all else fails.’

  ‘That would be appreciated,’ Jack answered.

  ‘But only if all else fails,’ Sen cautioned. ‘He is a man who has a bad reputation for taking advantage of situations to satisfy his own ends.’

  ‘Is he Chinese?’ Jack asked and Sen chuckled at his friend’s less than tactful slur on his race.

  ‘No, he is an Australian like you,’ he replied and Jack felt embarrassed by his thoughtless question. He understood, however, that Sen was warning him.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jack mumbled. But Sen did not hold any animosity. Jack’s remark was simply a slip between friends.

  Before he left for Moresby, Jack said goodbye to Paul who handed over his family’s address in Townsville and a letter for them. As they shook hands Jack realised just how much he owed the Chinese businessman for the hospitality and friendship he extended – to himself as well as Paul. He also knew that he owed it to his old friend George to find the truth about Iris. The guilt of leading the quiet and brave Englishman to his death in the densely forested mountains of Papua haunted the Australian more than he could confide to anyone.

  He stood on the wharf with his swag at his feet. Returning to Sydney meant confronting a little boy he felt that he had selfishly deserted. He had been able to console himself with the knowledge that Lukas was better left with his sister who could give him motherly love. But now the last news of Mary was that she was critically ill. To have her die would be bad enough. But for his son to lose a second mother would be worse.

  The gangplank rattled down to the wharf. Europeans milled on board. Men from the government service and their families jostled in the queue, happily looking forward to some leave at home. Home for Jack however was the place he was leaving, not the one he was going to. He hefted his swag and made his way to the gangplank.

  THIRTEEN

  She was as beautiful as he had always imagined. And there was no doubt that the young woman in the photograph that Jack had carried through the short years since the GreatWar was the same woman who now absent-mindedly scattered seed to the hens in the dusty yard.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Mann,’ Jack said. Erika snapped from her chore to look sharply at the man who had addressed her in her native tongue. She had not noticed his approach along the track – few people visited the temporary home she shared with her sister-in-law and nephew. ‘My name is Jack Kelly and I am a friend of your brother,’ Jack said as he removed his hat and brushed it against the side of his trousers.

  ‘You speak German although I suspect that you are an Australian from your accent,’ she replied with a frown.

  ‘My mother was German,’ Jack answered, taking in the graceful curve of her cheekbones. He felt a weakness in his stomach akin to that he had experienced in the trenches. It was called fear and he knew why. He was standing with his hat in his hand looking upon the vision of someone he had not imagined he would ever actually meet – the woman of his dreams. ‘I last saw your brother in Port Moresby a short while ago and he asked that I tell you all that he was well. He misses you all very much.’

  ‘Jack Kelly,’ Erika mused. ‘You were the enemy soldier who my brother told us about when we left Munich,’ she said as if remembering another time and place. ‘He said you were kind to him when he was wounded.’

  Jack hardly heard her words as he stared at the young woman. She was wearing an ankle length dress with a tight waist, a style popular in Europe before the war. Her long black hair was piled on her head in a tight bun that had been unable to control all her lustrous locks. Wisps fell across her face in a way that made her look vulnerable. She was not wearing a hat and the hot tropical sun was already touching her skin with rosiness akin to a blush.

  ‘We did meet under less than kind circumstances,’ he finally said, after taking in her dark beauty. He was aware that she was also appraising him in an enigmatic way. ‘I have a letter from Paul for Mrs Mann,’ he said, breaking the strange moment between them.

  ‘Then you should come inside to meet her,’ Erika said as she emptied the last of the seed from her apron onto the ground. The scrawny hens scrabbled in a frenzy around her dress to peck at the feed. She turned her back and Jack followed her to the high-set wood plank house built in the tropical style. It was a simple dwelling with a fenced garden of vegetables that had been lovingly attended to from what Jack could observe.

  ‘Karin,’ Erika called inside when they had climbed the rickety staircase. ‘There is a man to see us who has just come down from the north. He has a letter from Paul.’

  An older woman who looked to be in her late twenties emerged from the cool gloom of the house. She was covered in a thin film of flour and Jack guessed she had been in the process of making bread. What struck Jack most about Paul’s wife was the beautiful serenity of her welcoming smile. She held her hand out to him then withdrew it to wipe the excess flour from her hands on her apron.

  ‘I am Karin Mann,’ she said, embarrassed for being caught in a less than dainty condition.

  Jack beamed a broad smile to set her at ease. ‘My name is Jack Kelly and it is nice to see bread being made the way it was meant to be baked,’ he added. ‘A bit of a change from the damper I make in the bush.’

  Like Erika, Karin was impressed by Jack’s fluency in German, although his accent was somewhat amusing. It had a slight twang to it and his pronunciation of some words was rather quaint.

  ‘Mr Kelly’s mother was German,’ Erika reminded her sister-in-law. ‘That is how he speaks our language. Mr Kelly says he has news of Paul.’

  As if on a prompt, Jack reached into his pocket then passed the letter to Karin, who avidly read the contents. Jack stood patiently in the doorway while Karin finished reading the six-page expression of love and yearning.

  Finally she glanced up at Jack. ‘I am sorry, Mr Kelly, for my neglect,’ she said as if coming out of a trance. ‘I am rude in not inviting you inside for a coffee. Or is it tea you would prefer?’

  ‘Coffee would be fine,’ Jack said, stepping inside the sparsely furnished house. It was strange, Jack thought, that Paul’s sister had not expressed a desire to know what was in the letter her brother had written. But he dismissed the thought as Karin bustled around the wood burning stove to place a big, blackened coffee pot on the hot plate.

  ‘Paul has already told me about you, Mr Kelly,’ Karin said with her back to him. ‘I think you must be a very good man. He has written in his letter how you were able to get him employment with a friend of yours in Port Moresby. I am very grateful for your kindness.’

  ‘Nothing much in what I did, Mrs Mann,’ Jack said, parrying the expression of gratitude. ‘Just something mates do for each other around this part of the world.’

  Jack had translated the word ‘mates’ into German but it did not coincide with what Karin could understand in the Australian context. He could see her confusion and hurried to explain the meaning. ‘Mates are men who we look after. Not in the way of mates between animals.’

  Karin smiled and nodded her understanding of his clumsy explanation. ‘What we would call a deep friendship between men.’

  Now it was Jack’s turn to nod. He had to admit to himself that Paul’s wife was also a beautiful woman. He felt a touch of guilt. Such things were not usually admitted to, even to one’s self, when it came to a m
ate’s wife. That was the bush code of chivalry. But privately Karin was the kind of woman a man would be glad to live with – or die for. But then there was Erika, who seemed to be at the edge of their conversation. She had suddenly left the room with a muttered apology. There were tasks to attend to and Jack was disappointed to see her go. But he had noticed the fleeting scowl on Karin’s face.

  ‘I must apologise for Erika’s rudeness,’ she sighed as she poured the thick black coffee into two teacups, taking a seat at the simple plank table opposite Jack. ‘She has not taken to this land as I had hoped she would. I must also apologise that I do not have milk for your coffee.’

  ‘Tough country,’ Jack said as he stirred in a generous spoonful of sugar and took a sip. ‘But the coffee is good.’

  ‘You must not consider that Paul’s sister is normally like this with guests, but I am afraid she knows that you met my husband at the same time her beloved fiancé Wolfgang was killed. I sometimes think that she holds all Australians responsible for his death.’

  ‘I was sorry to learn of his death at the time,’ Jack said gently, ‘but that was war. I also lost a lot of friends to German bullets but I do not hold that against individual men who were only doing what the bloody politicians ordered us to do.’

  ‘I understand this also,’ Karin said. ‘With time I think Erika will come to understand the same. Now she is a young woman with the passion of her convictions. I do not think that she holds you personally responsible for Wolfgang’s death. It is just still fresh in her memories. She did not want to come to this country but Paul felt that he could better look after us over here rather than in Germany where things are not well. There is a deep bitterness that I fear is eating my country like an ogre.’

  Jack was about to express the opinion that Germany deserved her fate for starting the war in the first place. But he looked at the gentle face wracked with anguish for things past and present and bit his tongue. No, Karin Mann and her husband were truly decent people who did not need any more suffering. The war was over and so too should be the wasted search for causes. What did it matter who had started the bloody war? What was more important was that it was over.