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

by Andrew Wareham

  Jacky had been listening quietly, shook George's hand and told him to get aboard the plane - he was too useful to hang about in the bush. He turned to the captain and told him that he was the volunteer they wanted.

  "Been up here twelve years now, cobber. There ain't no bugger knows this place better. Four rifles and two hundred rounds each and one of them little Bren guns and a thousand for that. You can show me 'ow to load the mags and field strip 'er in half an hour, Sarge. Sorry, Lieutenant, now. I did two years on the Western Front; it won't take me a few minutes to learn 'er."

  "I hadn't thought you was that old, Jacky."

  "No birth certificates in Queensland, not out in the bush, mate! I was shaving when I was thirteen and no bugger argued."

  There was a small argument when Jacky recruited four of his labourers to make up his party; the captain pointed out that policy was never to arm the kanakas. They shouted at him until he surrendered.

  George boarded the De Havilland Rapide, sitting next to the pilot, co-pilot and engineer left in Moresby to give extra space. He heaved the seat belts as tight as they would go.

  "I must have flown out of here fifty times, mate - and I still shit a brick every time!"

  The pilot opened his throttles to full and they bumped down the slope of the strip and out over the ravine at the bottom, climbing slowly and turning quickly inland to reduce the chance of observation from the coast. Then it was the run through the mountains, navigating through the valleys, looking up at the ridgelines and praying they had made the correct turns at the right places, and down over Hombrun Bluff to the tiny coastal strip where Port Moresby lay. The pilot taxied across to the fuelling point - he was to make another trip to Bulolo immediately, and George walked slowly to the collection of shacks that was the airport of the capital of the Territory of Papua.

  Moresby stank, as always. Copra, petrol fumes and somewhere a dead dog - there always was. A driver walked across from a parked Humber staff car, saluted and checked he was the right man before taking him the miles to Konedobu and the seat of the administration, now reorganised for the war.

  It was called ANGAU now - there were signs on every building and on all of the new huts.

  "Australian New Guinea Administrative Unit, sir."

  "Ah... My father told me about that last time. The Army came in and changed the name of everything... they still made the old cock-ups though."

  "I beg your pardon, sir, but I think you will find that this is different. They have invented new cock-ups, sir."

  George grinned - the driver showed the proper Australian respect for authority.

  "Where do I go, mate?"

  "Main building, sir. There's a desk now and the sergeant will point you in the right direction, sir."

  "Thanks, mate."

  The sergeant was old in his rank; he had found a soft job and intended to stay in it for the duration. He leapt to his feet and gave a rigid salute and called George 'sir' three times in his first sentence.

  "Hawkins, sergeant. New Guinea Militia. I've just been pulled out of Bulolo."

  "Yes, sir. You are to see Major Askew, sir. He has ordered that you are to be taken to his office immediately on arrival, sir. I will have you taken across now, sir."

  The sergeant turned round to the room behind him, shouted.

  "Joseph, you black bastard, get out here!" He turned back to George, properly obsequious.

  "I'll get the kanaka to show you the Major's room, sir."

  "Sergeant, if I hear you use that language to one of the boys again, I will personally ensure that you end up in an infantry company right up at the sharp end, as a private. Do you understand me? I may be only a lieutenant, but I know enough people in this place to get you well broken!"

  George took pains to use his best, school-taught plummy Pommy accent - the Army responded to the sounds of sneering superiority. The sergeant folded instantly but knew better than to apologise.

  "Yes, sir."

  Joseph appeared, showed himself to be a local man from the villages behind Konedobu, straight black hair displaying the Malay influence along the coast. George spoke in quick Pidgin and then swopped to Police Motu, the other trade talk of the Territory and more favoured on the Papuan side.

  "Do you speak English, Joseph?"

  "Not to that dim-dim pig, master."

  "Nor would I. Will you take me to the place where I should be, please?"

  The Hanuabadans valued courtesy in speech, possibly again because of Malay influence. They had long traded westward down the coast of the Gulf and had met many foreigners over the centuries; they regarded themselves as one of the more advanced clans as a result.

  Major Askew was tall, rake-thin and scholarly; he was an Intelligence Officer, tasked to discover information about the Territory and serve it up in digestible lumps to General Officers. Unfortunately, he had prepared himself by reading a number of books, mostly written by missionaries or early anthropologists and distinguished primarily by their inaccuracy and tendency to digress into fairy tales.

  They exchanged salutes and the Major told George how pleased he was to meet him. He had been brought out because he was far too important to be risked.

  "Almost no sources of information about the New Guinea Side, you know, Mr Hawkins!"

  "Did nobody get out of Rabaul, sir? I had hoped that some might have flown out in the last days."

  "No. The Administration there tried to get out in a Ford Trimotor but they left it late. The plane was shot up on the strip at Rabaul and they were all captured or killed. There was one flying-boat made it this far, but it only had Chinks in it. They had passports, somehow, so we let them carry on south to Australia. No point asking that sort anything."

  "Did you get their names, sir?"

  "Cherr, or something like that, if I remember."

  "Mr Tse, sir, my wife's father. A millionaire several times over and one of the most intelligent men I have ever met, sir. A source of information second to none - what he does not know about the New Guinea Side is not worth bothering with. Did you ask for news of my own father, sir?"

  Askew was taken aback, and offended; he had planned to set George on as his number two in the Territory, but that was clearly not a sensible course of action now. The man had no sense of proportion.

  "Well, Mr Hawkins, I did not know that." He ignored George's question. "Now, the invasion forces in Lae. Can you give me numbers and strengths?"

  "Not precisely, sir. One aircraft carrier, two cruisers and a number of lesser warships. The one pilot of a Catalina I spoke to, the only survivor, said that there were at least twenty of troopships. One of the cruisers was damaged by a Catalina crashing into it carrying its full bomb load. No other harm was done to the fleet itself."

  "What of the planes, Mr Hawkins? How many were shot down?"

  "None, sir. The Buffaloes were useless - far too slow and unable to dogfight. We shot down two seaplanes in the retreat and saw three fighters crash trying to fly low and slow over bad country. I don't know how many planes there are on a carrier, but they lost almost none."

  Askew wrote George's information down, categorising it as the opinion of a Militia officer.

  "Do you know how many troops landed?"

  "No, sir. I was told two divisions, but I did not have any opportunity to form my own opinion. They certainly outnumbered the defending battalion. They took no prisoners, sir. They killed the wounded as they came to them. The battalion lost at least six hundred men, sir. I do not know what happened to the other company of Militia, sir."

  The major was properly distressed at this information, noting it as the opinion of his informant. The Staff would not wish to hear those figures until they were confirmed.

  "We know that the Japanese have reached Salamaua and presume they will strike out inland towards Port Moresby from there. How good are the roads across to Port Moresby, Mr Hawkins?"

  "There are no roads, sir. There is a track from Salamaua to the gold fields. I believe it require
s a week of walking, carrying small loads. There is no known track from Bulolo to the south and up into the mountains. There is certainly no route for wheeled vehicles west or south of the track that leads towards the Highlands for twenty miles out of Lae."

  "How reliable is that information, Mr Hawkins?"

  "I first flew into Bulolo eight years ago now, sir. I was part-owner of a trading agency in Lae; still am, for what it's worth! I have flown that country fifty times over, sir, literally. It is walking country, sir. Wholly. There are no roads. Where the tracks end here on the outskirts of Moresby is where the trucks stop, sir. It's different on the Gazelle, you can drive for nearly forty miles there. And there's the Bulominski Highway on New Ireland, of course. But there are no roads on the New Guinea Side."

  "How does one access, for example, Mission Stations, Mr Hawkins?"

  "Boat along the coast; otherwise by air, sir. The Missionary Societies have, or had, got their own planes and small craft, sir. Where there was a kiap, he would have a boat, of sorts, if he was coastal. Otherwise he depended on the Administration to fly in and out. Burns Philp and Steamships have their own ships and planes, but they are almost entirely coastal. I don't know of any plantations inland other than on the Gazelle in East New Britain and down the Bulominski in New Ireland."

  Askew slowly began to accept the message - walk, sail or fly. No wheeled traffic.

  "But I have a report here of a man who walked the tracks from halfway to Bulolo to Salamaua, in the Thirties."

  "Me, sir. Plane went down and I walked out. Just. No tracks - just swamp. Took damned near a week to cover less than twenty miles. I knew the bush within reason well - I did most of the right things. An outsider would have died; for sure!"

  Askew made another note, shaking his head at its unpalatable nature.

  "The first plan, Mr Hawkins, is for the Australian army to reconquer the Territory, overland. The Americans will assist but will put most of their effort into the Pacific Islands. How do we go about the task, in your opinion?"

  "Build a road from Moresby up the bluffs and into the Astrolabe Mountains. Then get ten thousand mules and walk across and into the Owen Stanleys. Build airstrips every twenty miles, and put fighters and bombers onto them. You might be able to build roads on the high plains land north of the Owen Stanleys - but I've never walked it, I don't know, and you could never get trucks up there. When you get to Bulolo you might be able to widen the track down to Lae, if you can get road building gear across. I don't see how you can do it in less than ten years, or with fewer than fifty thousand men. Much more sense to go up the coast, by ship."

  "But that is not the plan, Mr Hawkins."

  "The plan will not work, sir. It is impossible to move an army overland from Moresby to Lae. It cannot be done. The Japanese are more willing to kill their own men, from all we are told, and they may be able to walk light infantry in from the coast, but even they will not bring artillery and tanks across."

  Askew shook his head condescendingly.

  "It must be done, Mr Hawkins. The Staff have said so."

  "To my knowledge and in my experience, sir, the Staff are asking the impossible. One might have thought they had learned from the Somme that their fine words are of no value when placed against reality. They killed the finest of a generation in France, through arrogance, ignorance and plain stupidity. It seems they are attempting to do the same again!"

  Askew gave up - it was impossible to make a real soldier of an amateur.

  "I see. Thank you, Mr Hawkins. I understand that General Wythenshawe wishes to see you. No doubt he will send for you."

  George achieved a salute and wandered off. He did not know the building or the maze of new huts attached to it, but he could speak to the tea-boys; he quickly found his way to the offices of the Militia.

  "Lieutenant Hawkins, sir. I was ordered out of Bulolo this morning."

  A new lieutenant-colonel, unknown to George, agreed that to be the case.

  "We have lost nine out of ten of our officers, Mr Hawkins. We needed you. You are promoted captain with immediate effect. There are battalions in training in Queensland, newly recruited to come up here. You are to join the new Third Battalion, based on Cairns. You will fly down tomorrow and join in two weeks from now, sir. We have some reports from Rabaul and from Kokopo and Vunapope. They do not make good reading, Mr Hawkins, and I must express my sympathy to you, sir."

  "My father?"

  "Yes, Mr Hawkins. He has been put up for a decoration for his work in evacuating the mission. Posthumous, I am afraid."

  "It was as nearly a certainty as made no difference, sir. I am told that the Tses escaped, sir."

  "They did."

  "Good. My wife will not have lost her parents and my mother will have company at least."

  The lieutenant-colonel deliberately turned the discussion back to the war; he could see no gain in further commiserations.

  "What conclusions have you come to regarding fighting the Japanese, Captain Hawkins?"

  "Air first and foremost, sir. Fighter cover at all times; army cooperation bombers to attack their lines of supply and airfields, sir. Very much like the Germans did in the lead up to Dunkirk. That means we must have a radio with every company, sir, and trained men to call in air support. Artillery can't do it, because you can't get guns through the bush."

  "Planes instead of light and medium guns, you say."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And the foot soldiers themselves?"

  "Rifles, for half of each platoon. Light machine guns for the rest, Brens or Thompsons. Hand grenades to every man, half a dozen at least. A sniper to each platoon, trained up and with a heavy rifle if possible. Flame throwers would be useful. If you think there might be an ambush then a jet of fire would come in handy. Short range training, sir - walking in the bush you will be lucky to see ten yards in any direction. Don't load them down with rations and all of the other army crap - pull them back at night, another company to sit down in their place, and feed them at their base, a mile or two away."

  "Expensive of men, Captain Hawkins!"

  "I think, sir, you'll need to work one company up and all the rest in support. Rotate them."

  "What about tanks, Captain Hawkins?"

  "Where, sir? You have seen the hills beyond the airport here. Can you get tanks up there?"

  The lieutenant-colonel accepted that one could not. He took George to see the general.

  Wythenshawe was pleased to see George, congratulated him on bringing so many men out. ANGAU was sending small craft along the southern coast of East and West New Britain and had picked up platoons and half companies here and there, but he doubted that more than four hundred had escaped and many of them disease-wracked and unlikely ever to reach front-line fitness again.

  "Lack of bush training, sir, as well as this damned nonsense about anti-malarial tablets."

  Wythenshawe had not heard of the popular prejudice against the tablets and was irritated by it.

  "Just the sort of bloody nonsense you get every time something new comes into the army. I shall have an order published making it a military crime to catch malaria; we shall see if they prefer a month in the punishment barracks to taking their pills!"

  The general ordered George to the airport immediately - there was an afternoon flight out to Cairns, he said, and he had reserved a seat on it.

  "If you show up in the morning you will be put into the queue and may hang about all day. My driver will take you across now. By the way, Captain Hawkins, you are in for a Military Cross and may confidently expect notification within days."

  There was a Dakota waiting on the tarmac, brown-camouflaged and with Army printed large on the fuselage. George scowled, sure he could recognise a pattern of patches to the metalwork of the starboard wingtip, which had been brought into close contact with a coconut palm on the edge of an airstrip in West New Britain. He looked closely at the nose, saw a faint name under the new paint; it was his plane. He wondered whether Mick had m
anaged to arrange a lease agreement, but probably it had been bought out from them. He boarded and took the last remaining seat towards the rear, facing inwards, the army having increased the passenger capacity by installing longitudinal bench seats from nose to tail. He counted quickly – thirty-six aboard, well under the weight-carrying capacity, unless they had loaded the small hold space underneath.

  The Dakota taxied and took off easily and made its operating height quickly enough. George slumped in his seatbelt, needing his sleep. He sniffed at the air, recognised the sour smell of unwashed humanity in the bush; he decided that his neighbours might not be pleased with it. Bad luck!

  A crewman came down the aisle to him, delicately pointed to the Thompson gun resting between his feet and suggested that it was normal to unload one’s weapons while in flight.

  “Sorry, mate! Forgot!”

  George released the circular magazine and jacked the cocking lever to remove the round up the spout. He picked up the forty-five calibre round and thumbed it back into the magazine which he tucked away in the top of his small kitbag. He then unbuttoned the flap of the holster at his waist and unloaded the issue revolver, feeling rather foolish as he did so. He had not fired a shot himself, seemed something of a fraud in his own mind.

  The airport at Cairns was busier than he had ever known.

  He glanced around at the array of cargo planes, mostly at the hangars, three of which were new, loading for Port Moresby or dropping from Brisbane and further south. Across the field an air force station was in the building, gun pits already filled with a few modern Bofors and a mix of ancient Lewis and Vickers high-angle mountings. There were a half dozen of Hudson bombers and Buffalo fighters to the fore, and a couple of dozen biplanes behind them, for what use they might be.