"Catalina, sir."
The flying boat landed in the Markham River, showing damage to wings and hull. A shore boat took off the crew.
George ran down to take the pilot's report.
"Carrier, two cruisers and a dozen destroyers and smaller boats and a convoy of troopships. Maybe two hours sailing away. We bombed the troopers. Don't know if we hit anything. The other three boats and the two Hudsons that came in from Rabaul tried to get at the carrier and got shot out of the air. Seamus flew into one of the cruisers as he went down. He was in flames but I could see the pilot still in his seat and watched him turn into her. Still had his bomb load aboard and managed a bloody great bang as he hit. That was all we did between us. What orders have we got?"
"None. We lost all of our command in the raid, mate. Was I you, then I'd fuel up and load your guns and get the Hell out of it to Moresby. Take all your blokes you can get aboard and disappear inside the next half hour before the Japs are back."
George trotted back to Captain Curzon, gave him the information and stated that the Catalina was unable to carry a bomb load, its gear damaged, and consequently intended to evacuate.
Curzon instructed his radio man to send the message to Moresby to expect the Catalina, getting out at his order.
"Might as well protect them from any charge of desertion, Mr Hawkins. Can't do anything else useful."
The party digging out the shelter reached the bodies and confirmed all to be dead. It was no more than a formality but it enabled Curzon to take command and change the colonel's written orders.
"Mr Hawkins, take your company of the Militia inland across the Markham River and into cover on the road leading up towards the Highlands. Choose a location from which it is possible to ambush and withdraw repeatedly so as to hinder pursuit. If it is possible then the battalion will defend the wharves until forced to withdraw, passing through your position and reforming uphill of you."
The second Militia company had been sent to man trenches overlooking the wharves, the colonel thinking it possible that a trooper or two might land there. It had been obvious that the bulk of the Japanese would land towards the river mouth, he said, and he had ordered most of the Regulars there.
"Yes, sir. There is a point above a creek approximately three miles in from the river, sir, where a first ambush can be laid. There is a hillside steep enough to make it difficult for aircraft to come in low, sir and the bush is thick there. Ultimate aim, sir?"
"Retire on the goldfields, if possible."
"Ten days for fit men, sir. At least. Wounded won't make it. Impossible to move guns on that track, sir."
A single battery of six old First World War seventeen-pounder field guns had been brought in a month before. The colonel had emplaced them at the harbour, sanguinely expecting them to drive off Japanese warships.
"Too late to try, Hawkins. Hopefully they will hit a troopship or two before the cruisers flatten them."
George saluted and made his farewells; he did not expect ever to see Curzon again, knowing that he would stay with the rear-guard. He spent five minutes picking up his packed kitbag and the Thompson he had appropriated for himself. Then he ran to his own people, shouting them up and into march order.
They had the truck from his own agency, loaded with rations and water barrels and an amount of ammunition. He sent that ahead with a single platoon perched on top of the load.
"We are to cross the river and get up the track to the ambush point we recced last year. You all know your places there."
George had used the ambush site as the base for most of their field exercises in the past twelve months.
They were under the cover of the plantations before the raid covering the invasion troops came in, heard the bombs and machine-guns behind them. Nearly half an hour after that they heard the brief cracking barrage from the field guns, stopped by the thunder of naval artillery within two minutes. Later they were told that the field guns had hit two of the troopers and caused some casualties among the soldiers waiting to land; they would have done more damage if all of their old shells had exploded.
An hour saw them in their ambush position, unobserved as far as they could tell. They set their four Bren Guns into their pre-arranged places and placed the Boys Rifle where there was a clear field of fire some two hundred yards across a small creek running down to the Markham River. There was no reason to expect tanks or armoured cars but it was a good bet that the Japanese would be able to bring civilian trucks into use. George sent his own truck further up the graded road to the point where the track that eventually led to the goldfields branched off. They would make better time for not having to carry their own rations even for ten miles.
The creek could be crossed at several points on foot but wheeled traffic was restricted to a concreted roadway, a ford that was no more than a foot deep most of the year round. It was impassable in the Wet Season, but so was the rest of the track, so there had been no pressure to build a bridge.
The ambush point was nearly a hundred feet above the creek, the track taking a steep half circle up the side of the small valley. The hills were covered in thick bush that a walking man could slowly cut through, provided he had a bush knife or axe and the knowledge to avoid the nests of the kurukum ants that bit and injected formic acid, and the mud wasps that stung like hornets, and the less common hornets themselves. There were few dangerous snakes, but any number that looked venomous. Men new to the bush were unlikely to penetrate it easily or quickly.
"I want any trucks to be stopped, Blue. If you can hit them in the creek and block the track there, that'll be to the good."
Blue Piggott patted the Boys Rifle, said that he could guarantee to hit the engine on any truck at that range.
"You shoot first, Blue. Your call. We don't know what the Japs have got by way of equipment, or how soon they'll be able to get stuff ashore. Block the track first and then choose your own targets. Keep your head down. If we can see them then it may work the other way, too. Don't give a sniper a target, mate."
Blue was suddenly conscious that his mop of red hair, escaping from under his slouch hat in defiance of regulations, might make him more visible than most. He had been pleased to irritate the Regulars by 'forgetting' the need for a military haircut; now he wondered if it had been quite such a clever idea.
A few refugees came out of the town, Chinese and mixed-race and some locals, mostly clansmen from other parts who had decided to go home. None of them had a place to go to that night, or enough food to get there. George issued them with a couple of days’ worth of bully and biscuit - all that he could spare - and told them to make for the track to Salamaua, thinking they might survive the walk along the coast but could never manage the high hills to the goldfields. A single truck made its way along the dirt road, driven by one of the older Australian storekeepers with his three local boys in the cab.
"What have you got in the back, Henry?"
"Four of your blokes, George. Wounded, all of 'em. Your doctor put 'em on. Told me to get ‘em out before the Japs got into the aid post. He was staying on, so 'e said, with the couple of dozen others what can't be moved. He chucked a couple of packs of 'is kit in with 'em - dressings and sulfa powder and that sort of stuff."
The first aid kits would be useful, George knew. They had only the most basic packs with them, their personal issue.
"He chucked some bottles of quinine in as well."
The malarials would give them a chance of survival. Men with malaria could not march but the pills would keep them on their feet, until they ran out.
"How bad are the four you've got?"
"The doctor reckoned they would be able to march tomorrow with a bit of luck. One of ‘em was caught by bomb blast and shocked but the quack said 'e'd come round in an hour or two. The other three got hit by bullets or flying timbers and stuff - bashed about the head and put out or shook up. The man said that if they didn't die then they'd be back on their feet again - probably. They had a chance, anyway. T
he poor sods who can't get out won't have, that's for sure!"
Henry had half a ton of rice and canned fish in the back as well, but that belonged to his boys, who all came from the village on the other side of the hill. There was no point, he said, to paying them their back wages in Australian pounds - they would not be spending them in Lae for a few years, if ever, so he had bought in what he could for them.
"There's six twelve-bores as well, and a couple of hundred shells, and some rounds of ball besides. I've told ‘em to keep 'em well out of sight when the Japs come through, but they could be useful to ‘em."
He was defiant as he told George what he had done - it was a massive breach of Administration law, a certain prison sentence and deportation on the previous day.
"Good on yer, mate! I've been telling these Army pricks to do that for the last year! Warn them again that the Japs will butcher the whole village if they find a gun there. Tell 'em as well that they'll be paid when we come back for their officers' swords and any rifles they can show us."
"Is that official, George?"
"It will be, if I have my way. If it ain't I'll put me hand in me own pocket, Henry!"
Henry drove up the hill and to the village; he intended, he said, to take the truck along the track as far as he could then start walking. He had his own croc rifle and a few rounds. He would see them when they caught up with him. He kept the wounded aboard; they would make their own way in the morning, he hoped.
"They haven't got much of a chance if they can't, mate."
They waited through the early afternoon, taking what cover they could from the sun, shifting into the shade where they could find it, not daring to cut banana leaves or palm fronds that could be made into bush shelters but would quickly turn brown and show visible in the greenery.
George realised that he should have dug trenches over the previous year. They would have blended into the background within a couple of months but would show up as raw earth if he had the men dig now.
The background noise from the town grew louder, naval gunfire aimed further inland and lighter explosions that he supposed must be field guns or mortars, possibly hand grenades. There was a continual crackle of rifle and machine-gun fire; just occasionally he could pick up the slower thump of a Bren gun. Twice he was sure he heard sustained bursts from a Vickers, heavier than the Japanese guns according to Intelligence. There was a retreat, as they had all known must be inevitable, but the Diggers were still fighting; he wondered how many survived. The Japanese aircraft were less active; he supposed that the two sides must be too close for the planes to be sure not to kill their own.
There was a whistle from Blue Piggott and he trotted across to his position.
"Some of ours on the road, George! I can see the hats, look."
George had his field glasses, but they were of little use to him, unable to penetrate the thick bush. A few minutes and he could pick out a company, at least, in good order, falling back from cover to cover, four of its platoons holding at any given moment while the rest leap-frogged them back in a series of rushes. He watched as they took cover on the coast side of the creek, perhaps a quarter of a mile from his ambush.
They had chosen a slightly more open piece of hillside, steeper and rockier than the Militia's position. There was the opportunity to hunker down behind the rocks and the thinner bush gave them a better field of fire, but they would be exposed for at least a hundred yards when they tried to retreat.
"They must have orders to stick there till nightfall, I reckon, boss. Long stop, trying to hold the Japs while the rest fall back through them. If there is any rest. Is that a Vickers they're setting up, George?"
A machine-gun section was shifting rocks to provide themselves with cover in a position where they could fire almost directly down the track where it took one of its many bends. They would be able to hold infantry back until mortars or aircraft destroyed them.
"Looks like it. They've got a Lewis as well. Hand held, but they might just surprise a plane trying to strafe them. Worth trying, anyway."
The colonel had made no plans for withdrawal - there had been no such need in his mind - so the Company Commander, probably a sergeant, would not know of the Militia's ambush.
George ran to a reserve rifle platoon, officially named as such though four of them carried Thompson guns. He called to the four, three privates and a corporal.
"Sam, I want you to go to the Company that's just set up down the track. Find their boss and tell him where we are. We don't want them opening up on us in the night. If their bloke is junior to me - and I don't think there's any man senior left alive except maybe the QM - then tell him when the time comes he's to fall back along the track until he reaches the first crest, a mile or so up from us. We'll pull back on him at dawn. Got it?"
"Yep."
"Good. Don't stay there. Come on back as soon as you've talked with 'im. Do it in pairs, two up, two back, like we've practised."
They were amateurs, and it showed, but at least they knew the bush and understood how to keep out of sight. George watched them take a cautious quarter of an hour to reach the Regulars and then scuttle from rock to rock to find their commander. An hour saw Sam back and reporting.
"They're D Company, George, Sergeant McGuire in command. He says the RSM gave him his orders to hold till dark, like we thought. The RSM said that if any bugger was still in Lae by nightfall, he'd be dead. He reckons the Japs put at least a division ashore in the first hour. All infantry, no heavy weapons, but they'll be following by tomorrow, if it not before. He don't expect many to make it out. The Japs are bloody mad - they just keep coming, so 'e says. Kill half the buggers in an attack and the rest don't go to ground, they just carry on, screaming and waving their bloody bayonets. They ain't got any grenades left, used them all up breaking away from the fighting. He said as well that the Japs ain't taking prisoners and they're bayoneting any wounded they find."
"Pass the word, Sam. If that's how they play the game, we can do the same."
They sent men to the creek to fill their water bottles where the current flowed fastest. George was struck by an idea, went down himself to check the flow of the small river.
Two hours passed and a few soldiers appeared, running singly or in small groups, squads mostly, once a platoon that had held together. Sergeant McGuire sent them through his position and ordered them to report to the Militia officer. Strictly speaking, Regulars could not be commanded by Militia, but it was no time to stick by the letter of the law.
George issued them ammunition; those who had come with empty pouches he formed into reserve platoons to hold with his men.
A few who seemed not to have fired a shot he ordered up the track. They could save their own skins perhaps, but he would not rely on them in a fight. Between them the survivors numbered less than another company.
"Three quarters of the battalion gone, I make it," George commented to his sergeants as they waited together, watching the Regulars as they kicked out the small fires they had been brewing up on. "Must be Japs in sight if they've put the tea buckets away."
They waited a few minutes, all of the men in position.
"Looks like half a battalion, sir. At least. Cocky bastards! They're formed up in column of route, look!"
The Japanese seemed to have decided that the fighting was over. They were marching, rifles shouldered, almost a parade.
Sergeant McGuire let them come very close, less than one hundred yards distant when he ordered the Vickers and Lewis guns and his two Brens to shoot. His riflemen opened rapid fire as well and the front of the column disintegrated, the first two companies falling almost to a man.
The rest rapidly took to the bush and began to return fire.
"He made a cock of that, sir. He should have got the Vickers to aim at the rear and sweep forward while the other three worked from the front back."
Sergeant O'Neill was the oldest man in the Militia, at least forty and over age in theory. He claimed to have fought in Spai
n, however, and George believed him. He was definitely a Red, George thought, from his limited knowledge of such people. He made a note of the semi-professional assessment - the man had seen fire which very few of the others had.
They watched as a company of Japanese made their way forward to within fifty yards of the machine-guns and then, seemingly impatient, suddenly jumped out onto the track and began a charge. Two officers with swords took the lead and seemed to be racing each other to be first into the Australians, yelling and cheering. They all died, none getting within ten yards.
"They could have worked closer, sir, got within twenty feet of the guns and then tried to close with 'em, sir. I reckon they're just as new to it as we are!"
"They've been told that the Australians will all run away if you go in with the sword and bayonet, Sergeant. They must have been! What do they call them? Samurai, is that the word? Warriors who can destroy whole armies of foreigners all on their own... they believe the bloody stories!"
Not supermen, after all.
Not good at learning, either - a second company did exactly the same, and died in identical fashion.
The fighting petered out, for lack of Japanese; they had attacked and died almost to the last man. A few remained, wounded and with no assistance - there were no stretcher-bearers, no medics in their battalion it seemed.
"Sam, go down again and order McGuire up to us before the planes come in. They must have sent a runner back."
The Japanese also had much to learn, it seemed. They had no communications set up with the aircraft carrier, no quick method of calling in their air power. McGuire brought his company in without further attack.
"Fill your water bottles, Sergeant McGuire. Get the men to drink what they've got and refill now."
George waited while the Regulars used the creek then ran with two platoons to the scene of the fighting.
"Eight stiffs, shot in the guts is best. Just drag the bastards, no need to get messy! Bring 'em with me."
The creek took a bend a hundred yards up from the ford, the water slower and shallower there. At George's instruction they threw the corpses onto the muddy bank where the sun would get to them quickly, making sure they were partially submerged in the water.
A Place Called Home (Cannibal Country Trilogy, Book 2) Page 20
