A Place Called Home (Cannibal Country Trilogy, Book 2)

by Andrew Wareham

  He had a little more than eleven hundred pounds in his bank account, from earnings of more than three thousands. He had wasted the better part of two thousand.

  He corrected himself, it was not all waste. At least five hundred had gone to Maria, and that was entirely as it should be, and would continue to be; that was money spent in a very good cause. She was his responsibility and she had rights over him.

  But the gambling was not a sensible use of his money, or time; he was an adult now and poker was for the kiddies who never became men. The card schools would see him no more. He needed an occupation for his spare time, something to do that would keep him out of mischief; he had some books of his own and the use of the hundreds Mick had put together, and that could occupy his evenings, both reading for pleasure and learning about business and aviation and perhaps government as well. There was a gun club in Lae - pistol and rifle on the range built in a valley just out of town. They ventured into the swamps crocodile shooting as well on most weekends, and that produced a profit in the way of skins. Some of the men went out fossicking, pottering across the hills looking for gemstones and precious metals, rarely with any success, but it gave them something to do; not an adult habit, though - prospecting was for the everlasting teenagers of the world, the Peter Pans; it was just another form of gambling, of something for nothing.

  Crocodile shooting for profit was all very well, but the swamps were less than amusing places these days... better he should go back to them - if he did not then he might run away for the rest of his life. The swamps frightened him now, and that was more than sufficient reason to go shooting in them. He did not like the realisation that he was afraid, though he suspected that the understanding of fear might be what growing up was all about. To be adult one must have fear, and treat it as a servant not as a master.

  It would make sense to keep his eye in on the range as well - there was a sniff of war in the air; the newspapers that came up from Australia were suddenly talking of expansionism, of the building of new empires. Italy and Japan and the new Germany were all talking of their needs and rights in the world - and that meant conquest. The weak countries would suffer, and Australia was militarily insignificant but owned a continent.

  When war came then Australia, and hence the Territory, would be involved, though how or why he was unsure.

  What about the firm? To an extent because of his poor judgement they had lost their plane, and the gold in it - and they could forget about ever trying to find that. He owed the diggers up at Bulolo for their dust, and he would repay them. He must speak to Mick about that - did they have insurance, maybe?

  "Damned right we had, George! It's the law up here, you must have a policy on a plane. Life cover on the pilot and passengers and replacement on the cargo and some part of the price of the plane itself - anything you owe on it. I put the claim in as soon as she went down. Showed them the books with the receipts from the assay office; you been averaging one hundred and eighty ounces Troy of gold each run and that's what they've agreed to pay out."

  "I didn't have half of that aboard, Mick. They had the quickshits so bad they'd hardly been producing."

  "That's the figure they offered me and I didn't argue. They're trying to find relatives, next of kin, for Bob the pilot as well. He was Air Force in the War so they can find his records from Canberra. It's five hundred quid in hand for them, which could be useful just now; chances are they're unemployed the way things are down South at the moment. A couple of hundred on the plane as well - I showed them our books and they record a loan secured against the old girl. I did it to fiddle the taxman originally, but the insurance can afford it. The Administration have been leaning on them for a while, complaining that their rates are too high, so they're keen to show that they treat their customers honestly at the moment, and they're making a show of paying up."

  George had kept his notebook with the records of his transactions still intact.

  "I wrote the gold in my book, Mick, so I can credit the diggers with it, normal way, like as if it had gone through the assay. It was my responsibility once I took it from 'em."

  "That's good with me, George. You can tell 'em yourself - if you're goin' back?"

  That was something he must face; he had carefully avoided wondering whether he would fly again. Whether he could fly again, in fact. But that was part of it - if he was an adult then he would go back; if he was no more than a boy he could run away.

  "Got a De Havilland flying in tomorrow, George. Sent to the agent down at Brisbane and he picked this one up from a bankrupt carrier over in Darwin. Given it a thorough ten thousand hours overhaul as well. She'll carry two tons up the hill."

  "No choice, mate! I'll fly first run she makes. Can't stay up here in the Territory if you ain't got the balls for it! Just make sure I'm wearing brown trousers when we take off, Mick!"

  The De Havilland was at least ten years newer than the old bomber and had flown many fewer miles; it had a very pretty paint job as well. The pilot was reassuringly old, nearly forty, and had been flying since 1914; that meant he had had many opportunities to die and had not taken them. The first, possibly the only, rule for flying with bush pilots was to check how long they had been shaving - young pilots always thought that dying was something that happened to other people; older men knew better and had got into the habit of living.

  "I'm Chris, mate."

  They shook hands, an opportunity to check whether he had the shakes.

  Reassuringly firm - neither an alcoholic nor a nervous wreck.

  "Been up here long, Chris?"

  "Queensland for three years, since I left the Air Force. Mick wrote to the people he bought the plane from and they gave me the offer to come up with it and try out for a few months, see if I liked it up here."

  "Take you a week to make your mind up, mate. You like the place or you hate it, and you know which pretty damned quick."

  "So long as I'm flying, mate, she'll do me."

  They loaded in the last hour of darkness, working under the Coleman lanterns in the hangar and packing the boxes and cartons tight so that there would be no movement in the inevitable turbulence. George put the emergency kits where he could lay his hands on them quickly, strapped his pack by the side, spare boots dangling by the laces, clean socks double checked.

  "Got your handgun, Chris?"

  "Are you serious, George?"

  "Pilots always carry up here, mate. By law."

  Mick had been listening, walked across to his safe and pulled out a new Smith and Wesson, bought for the purpose.

  "One side-arm, officers' model, Chris. Forty-five calibre - bloody great cow of a thing but the Police in Brisbane insisted that was the correct model to send up. Stick her on your belt, mate."

  The De Havilland was faster than the old Vimy and, importantly in the mountains, climbed at almost twice the rate. George sat in the right-hand seat and watched the pilot's easy competence; he was no better than Bob had been but was far less showy, had no point to make. With Bob every move had been a statement to an audience, possibly to old friends of his memory, but this man seemed to have no ghosts on his shoulder, which was strange, as he had been through the War.

  "Were you Western Front, Chris?"

  "Flanders, then Italy, then back to France again. Started in scouts and then got pushed across to twin engines, to night bombers; then I was put onto the big day bombers when they came in, which was less fun for a few months till the War ended. Stayed in the Air Force then, Transport or Bomber Command, switching between the two, for years. Did me time in Mesopotamia and then in India before getting sent back to Australia. Was married for a time but that didn't work out and I chucked the Air Force back in '32 when I came due for a pension. Couldn't stop flying though. Ain't likely to now. Is that the bloody strip coming up? I see what you mean!"

  George had talked Chris through the strip at Bulolo, had told him what to expect, that he had to make a first-time approach and landing because of the valley leading in. He
heaved his straps tight and tried to seem unconcerned; he was no hand as an actor.

  They landed cleanly and rolled up the slope and turned off the strip to the parking at the side, next to one of the Company's Junkers.

  "Jesus, George! If I hadn't seen the Tin Lizzie here I probably would have said it couldn't be done and have pulled out and gone back to Lae!"

  The Junkers was all-metal, with a corrugated body, hence the nickname.

  "Fun, ain't it!"

  George climbed down from the much higher and visible cockpit, was greeted with shouts from the diggers who were there.

  "Oi, Lazarus!"

  He had had Bible Study as part of the curriculum at his school, picked up the reference to returning from the dead, laughed with the rest. He took out the receipts he had prepared, handed them round.

  "What's this, George?"

  "Insurance paid up, Jacky. I put in the rough weight of dust you gave me and at the usual percentage; it's in your account in Lae, normal way. It's a guess, so if you reckon I'm out, tell me."

  "Bugger that, mate! I'd written that off as lost! She'll do me."

  They talked over the crash and the walk out while the boys unloaded the cargo, listening avidly. Most of the labourers had picked up some English and between them they could understand everything. They agreed that the young master had done well; he had been almost as clever in the bush as them, he should be proud of himself.

  An hour on the ground and the cargo was sold and orders were taken for the next trip in. A dozen small pokes of gold were put into the box in the hold and the plane was turned and hauled tail-first to the top of the strip.

  "How do you like the idea of taking-off downhill, Chris?"

  "Better than trying it the other way round, mate. Give the chock-boys the word."

  It was the last chance for George to change his mind - he could get out and choose to walk the track for two weeks instead. He leaned out of the widow, waved to the boys, checked both were clear and then sat back, trying to relax his white knuckled grip on the seat.

  Thirty wholly uneventful minutes and they landed at Lae and George unclenched; next time would be better.

  It wasn't, but he had no choice; he flew up at least twice a month.

  A year with the newer, bigger plane and the partnership had cash enough to buy a Ford Trimotor, essentially a passenger carrier, faster and with a higher ceiling than the De Havilland, the flights less bumpy. They registered as an airline, selling tickets for regular flights rather than chartering, and began a route from Lae across to Kavieng in New Ireland; out to Hoskins in West New Britain, then to Rabaul and across the St George's Channel on one day and back on the next. Wednesdays and Thursdays they ran the coast to Madang and Wewak and Vanimo up on the Sepik, then it was a day in the mechanic's hands and a charter on Saturday, if there was a taker. There were no roads and ships were painfully slow; they never took off less than half full of passengers, often had no empty seats at all.

  The Administration used their service by preference - they were local and the money stayed in the Territory. Mick and George suspected as well that there was a push from Rabaul to keep the Hawkins family sweet - there were advantages to knowing people.

  There were problems to overcome as well.

  The supply of aviation fuel was sometimes erratic and they actually had to sit on the ground waiting for a tank ship to come up from Brisbane on two occasions. Both were caused by cyclones which reached the edge of the Papuan Gulf and simply made sailing impossible; it was difficult to argue with that. They suggested that it might be an idea to install larger storage tanks at Lae, but the Administration countered with the request that they should find the money for them.

  More annoying, at first, was the attitude of the Missions. The run out to New Ireland had been welcomed enthusiastically by Protestants and Catholics alike and they took one or two seats on almost every flight. They used the service so frequently that they suggested it would be more convenient to open a monthly account; it seemed a little strange that the two major missions should act together, their requests arriving on the same day, but it was impossible to argue with their sensible idea. It was easier all round to call for a single payment each month than to issue a dozen tickets separately to each headquarters. The missions never paid cash; their people always travelled with empty pockets, presumably to encourage charitable giving among the general population.

  The first account was submitted and was paid within days, by both churches. The next month's invoices attracted no response at all; the same for the following two months.

  Mick talked to his circle of acquaintances in Lae and discovered that there was a proposal for a joint Mission Air Service, to fly a route from Port Moresby to Lae and then out to the Islands, calling at every mission station with an airstrip. The intention was to use a pair of planes initially, probably a Trimotor and a De Havilland.

  "Bastards are going to bankrupt us and pick up our planes for free, George!"

  George thought for a while, then decided how to make a fight.

  "Do we know who supplies their canned stuff, Mick?"

  "Burns Philp for both, I'm pretty sure, George."

  Burns Philp had not been paid for months either and were becoming unhappy; the Great Depression had affected their trade and they could not afford to carry bad debts. The addition of a little quiet pressure from Rabaul - the suggestion that the cocoa trade could be run by some other agents was especially useful - and Burns Philp refused to fill any more orders from either Missionary Society. None of the other importers would step in - they did not want a trade war with the largest firm in the Islands.

  The Missions could not exist without their handouts of bully beef and canned fish; their converts expected to be fed. They threatened excommunication first and offered cheques within the week. They were offended when supplies were still refused until the banks had cleared their payments; they were outraged then to be told that they were under boycott still until they had cleared all of their outstanding debts.

  Mick refused to sell any tickets to any traveller except against cash thereafter, apart from Burns Philp, who had first call on seats, on account. The pilots were ordered always to take Burns Philp people, dumping mission workers first to make room for them.

  Mick pointed out to the Bishop of Rabaul, who had made a special trip to remonstrate with him, that with his habits his soul wasn't worth very much in any case - so threats of retribution in the Afterlife were fairly much wasted.

  "I'll risk Hellfire, Bishop, and you can pay bloody cash - and buy your own planes down South. You ain't getting mine on the cheap."

  Ned watched all from a distance and was amused - the missionaries had pushed a little too far in their onrunning grab for political power in the Territory. This time they had been slapped down; next time they would be more subtle probably - it would be fun to watch. The only thing that puzzled him was why the Catholics were suddenly talking to the London Missionary Society; the two had been calling each other Sons of Satan for nearly half a century and now were proposing joint ventures, and acting with joint dishonesty. He wandered down to Vunapope, had a quiet beer in Father Joe's company as he often did.

  An hour of discussion of the state of local affairs - there were gold miners back in the Bainings again and a little of unrest as a result - and the conversation turned to the plans for more schools for the Tolai. The Administration wanted to see every child eventually receive at least four years of education, sufficient to achieve a basic literacy and numeracy so that they could begin to set up small European style businesses one day.

  "Money, Herr Ned, that is behind it all. They will set up workshops and make things and sell them and earn an income and then they can be taxed. That is the reason for it. That and to make them less satisfied with a proper way of life."

  Ned raised an eyebrow as he opened another bottle.

  "Books, Herr Ned! They have it in mind to open a library!"

  "Don't read that much mes
elf, Father Joe, but what is wrong with that?"

  "They will not accept proper guidance on the books to be placed on the shelves."

  "Ah!"

  "Add to that, they wish to allow newcomers to open schools of their own. Secondary as well. And they will allow them to send local boys to America or Samoa or elsewhere to attend so-called colleges!"

  "Breaking the monopoly, Father Joe? Letting competition into the Heaven market? Must be bad for us all! I wondered what was happening. Have you heard anything about this idea of local councils for the Tolai villages?"

  "Democracy, of all the forms of stupidity one might imagine, Herr Ned! I have asked them if they intend to have elections for the Archangels!"

  "Not a bad idea, Father Joe - except that they are all whiteskins, ain't they? Thanks for the beer, mate. Drop in next time you're up my way!"

  Ned met up with a dozen of the elders of his local village later in the week, just for a quiet talk such as they had every month or two. He asked about the new missions he had heard talk of.

  "Inland, Master Ned, up in the new villages on the edge of the Bainings. Seven Days, they call themselves. They come from America, where they do not have a Master King at all. Or a Master Pope. Not even a Master Kaiser. Very strange, because they are still whiteskins and say they are the bosses in their churches, so they must have a Master Somebody."

  This was dangerous territory and Ned rapidly backed away. He might have been up in the Territory almost longer than any other man, but he could still find himself deported overnight if he became involved with local political agitation. Questioning, even obliquely, why the whiteskins were the masters was far too Red for safety.

  "What about the council, Master Ned?"

  "I do not think the Governor will want to set up councils just for one part of the Territory. If there are to be councils for the Tolai then there must be for every other clan in the whole of the land."