Worth Fighting For

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  He’d thought it an easy enough flight until now but as he looked down at the steep, narrow strip on the top of the rise, Marlon felt the sweat build on his palms. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

  It was almost comical, like someone had put a piece of sticking plaster on a knee and called it a runway. Built by the Aussies, he could almost feel their humour in its design, imagining Johnno or Macca back in Darwin telling him it ‘does the job, though’ and was ‘better than a poke in the eye with a blunt stick’. He smiled wryly at that thought, loosening his grip a little.

  He was escorting a supply mission and hoped to God there wouldn’t be any Japanese raids today. Marlon had run dozens of sorties with the 49th of late and seen enough flying debris from ships, men running from strafing and spiralling Japanese planes to fill a movie. It had driven him to the bar most nights and he knew he was getting frayed, but of course there was little time to recover in this Pacific war. Ironically, this task of supporting the 7th in a P-40 was something he’d been asked by the major to do as a kind of break, a reprieve of sorts if you didn’t count the recent Japanese bombings of the town, the hazardous airstrip, the unpredictable weather and the high percentage of crashes around this ridge. Of course, the major was also keen for him to be his ‘eyes and ears’, stay a night or two and ‘check out the lie of the land’. In other words, something big was about to go down and Marlon was important enough to be entrusted with finding out the facts but dispensable enough to risk doing so.

  He had to admit the lie of the land was quite something to behold. They were circling around the aerodrome at fifteen thousand feet and the beauty of Wau was impressive. Gold miners and timber cutters had tried in vain to tame this wild outpost and the reasons for their limited success were obvious from the air. New Guinea was so thickly vegetated it looked as if worn sheepskin rugs had been thrown over the mountains, only of course they were green, then bluish where they met the horizon. The sky was clear for now and Marlon relaxed into the flight, enjoying the freedom of flying without the enemy biting at his heels. The sky was one of only two places he felt at home – the other being the sea.

  Memories of being a child of the shores, of idyllic times lying in the salt water, being infused by it, happy, had always calmed Marlon. But now thinking of the sea also made him think about streaming planes and sleeping harbours he’d seen rudely awakened. A girl with the sun touching her hair as she held a fishing line. Marri’s face came to him then and he pushed it away forcefully, unwilling to spend his waking hours suffering the same torment that haunted his nights.

  He forced himself to focus on the sky. It looked as though it wanted to be part of the land here as low clouds walked slowly across the mountain ridges and valleys, constantly resting and in no hurry to free themselves from the earth’s rugged embrace. This was a sky that gave life, as the water gods fed the gushing streams, sending their bounty down gullies and crevices to eventually find the ocean at the end of a wilderness journey. Home to the Papuan harpy eagle and the brilliantly coloured bird of paradise. And now home to war and the black dots.

  Just like the ones coming his way.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again but no, he wasn’t imagining them – three black dots, turning into planes, now in clear view. And looking below, there were many more, bombers and Zeros, too many to count.

  Marlon dived for the bombers, trying to halt their release, but he was too late. He fired at one anyway, the rear gunner firing back, then banked to chase a Zero. Rat-a-tat. The familiar sound pelted at the enemy and vice versa. They both missed, then Marlon noticed a Zero chasing a supply plane and found himself belly up in pursuit. He fired again. This time he connected and watched as the Japanese plane lost altitude in a whine then exploded into the mountainside.

  The chase continued, enemy planes occasionally falling, but no Allies went down and Marlon was finally able to breathe more normally as the Japanese melted away and he could land at last. No mean feat – it had to be spot on or he’d go crashing into mountains on either side. The sticking-plaster runway met his wheels in ludicrous greeting and he bumped his way upwards – and at one point almost sideways – then quickly moved out of the way to allow the next plane in. Most were landing uphill, unloading and taking off downhill pretty quickly. Marlon watched them do so, still scanning the skies nervously for the enemy’s possible return.

  Then the drop-off was complete, the damage from the bombings minimal, and he decided to look for whoever was in charge of this crazy excuse for an aerodrome and see what his ‘eyes and ears’ could discern. And whether or not they served coffee in this upside-down corner of the war.

  ‘That’s correct, sir. They should be the equivalent of about two companies, all up, but a lot of them are sick.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I said a lot of men are sick in Kanga Force. Mostly malaria. They’re not full strength.’

  ‘Japs have been sighted coming your way, so get as strong as you can.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Marlon responded, wondering just how he was supposed to achieve that.

  ‘Any sight of the enemy up there?’

  ‘Only in the air.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I said, we can’t sight them on the ground but plenty of air attacks.’

  ‘The 17th are being sent but it’s a matter –’

  Marlon swore at the mouthpiece impatiently as the major’s voice dissolved into crackling.

  ‘Sorry, major, I didn’t get that.’

  ‘Having enough planes –’ Crackle.

  ‘Landings are still hazardous – we almost lost another one this morning. Did you get that, Major? Major?’

  Crackle. ‘– keep at it –’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘– special force – want you to take them under your wing –’ Crackle.

  ‘Who?’

  Crackle. ‘– Elite.’

  ‘Major? Major?’ Marlon swore again, banging the mouthpiece.

  ‘No, not “shit”,’ the major’s voice came through, and Marlon could hear the amusement through the breaking line. ‘The Elite.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. When are they coming?’

  Crackle crackle. The line was pure static now and Marlon sighed, putting the mouthpiece down. So much for a break from combat. Looking out at the mountains, he wondered which direction they would attack from, because an attack was imminent; he could feel it. Any airman could tell that the Japanese were serious about preventing reinforcements up here and that could mean only one thing. He just hoped these ‘elite’ men they were sending weren’t as green as the hills around them. And that they survived the bloody landings.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Mayflower cried as he slid along the plane floor into Nugget, who tried to hold him up with one giant hand. There were no seats in these American ‘Biscuits’ and, with plenty of banking left and right, Michael wondered if the poor fella would make it off without throwing up. He looked pretty pale.

  Cliffy held onto his helmet and yelled to Michael, ‘We’re like bloody sardines in a tin.’

  He couldn’t agree more. There was regular gunfire and he could hear their fighters savagely protecting them, but he’d never felt more vulnerable in his life than sitting in this steel cylinder in the sky. It was the first time he had ever flown and so far he was thinking it was the most unnatural state of being known to man, especially when Japanese Zeros were busy trying to shoot them down. But he was the officer in charge no matter where they were – water, land or sky – and it was up to him to reassure the men.

  ‘Easy does it, mates. All over in a minute.’

  They began to descend and Michael decided the Elite needed further distraction from what was going on around them.

  ‘What do we do when we land?’

  ‘Run for cover, heads down,’ they said automatically.

  ‘When do you return fire?’

  ‘When you’re out of sight.’

  ‘Because what’s hard to shoot?’


  ‘A snake in long grass.’

  ‘Again.’

  They groaned but Michael made them repeat it three times, as much to occupy them as to reassure them. It was one of many drills his father had made them recite over and again, and today they would turn it into reality.

  But saying and doing are two very, very different things.

  They braced themselves as the big plane came in and Michael wondered fleetingly how it would be possible for it to land anywhere up in the New Guinean mountains. He was glad he didn’t have to watch.

  But he did have to feel it.

  The plane jolted at an unnatural angle, crashing them against each other, the landing an absurd, terrifying affair until somehow they finally came to a halt.

  Then the door was released and Michael saw immediately there was fighting underway. Firepower could be heard on the ground and in the sky and they would have to follow his father’s words exactly to avoid flying bullets.

  ‘Behind me,’ he yelled, jumping out.

  The scenery was a blur of greens and browns and the racket from the planes and anti-aircraft artillery challenged his ability to listen for the direction of snipers or otherwise. He kept his head down and made for whatever cover he could find, hoping the others were doing the same, and found safety behind a mound of sandbags and old machinery. There were snipers around all right – a bullet hit the bag behind him and he crouched lower, dropping his pack. Hoisting himself up, he tried to find the source of the shooting, discovering that it came from a nearby rise. He shouldered his gun, glad to see Jake land next to him. Soon they were both firing and Michael squinted at the sky, noticing a thick shroud of mist moving over the aerodrome.

  Maybe that would deter them.

  It did. The enemy seemed to retreat once they couldn’t see and Michael was soon able to sound the whistle and pull his men together.

  They turned up, one by one, from whatever hiding places they’d found, and he felt his heightened senses begin to settle as each face appeared.

  ‘Where’s Mayflower?’

  ‘Relieving himself of his breakfast,’ said Nugget.

  ‘Brilliant,’ Cliffy said, grinning.

  Mayflower emerged to a fair dose of ribbing. Then Michael heaved his pack on, and the others followed suit.

  ‘Right, let’s head over to Command and see what’s next.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Jake, and Michael looked at him quizzically. ‘Reckon we better start calling you that now we’re finally at war. Otherwise they might shoot the good-looking fellas first instead.’

  Michael laughed as they started to walk. ‘And why would they do that?’

  ‘Pure jealousy. Japs are only human too.’

  They found Command soon enough and Michael went in to talk to the officers in charge while the others sat down for a wellearned smoko.

  There was only one man inside, an American officer who seemed to be having trouble with the radio.

  ‘Sniper activity,’ he yelled at it before banging the top.

  ‘Corporal Riley and the Elite squad reporting, sir,’ Michael said, saluting.

  ‘I’d lose the mantle to anyone but yourselves round here, buddy,’ the captain said, squinting at the machine. ‘Goddam useless things,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The man stood, checking Michael over and flicking his eyes to the patch on his shoulder that contained a gold capital E. He walked over to the window to look at the rest of them.

  ‘How much combat have you boys actually had?’

  ‘About half an hour,’ Michael admitted. ‘Just then.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No, sir. But we’ve had special forces training for the past year and we’ve been well drilled in –’

  ‘Training isn’t combat.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Green as the hills,’ the American muttered to himself. ‘Oh well, let’s see what we can do with you. I’m Captain Marlon Stone, and – sorry, Riley, was it?’

  ‘Corporal Riley. Michael.’

  Captain Stone nodded at him, looking thoughtful. ‘You know you look familiar for some reason…’

  ‘Might be the uniform?’

  The captain seemed taken aback, then amused. ‘Come on, let’s get you settled in before you try any more of that Aussie humour on me. Don’t think I can survive much more of it after Darwin.’

  ‘In that case, you may want to avoid any conversations with Private Clifford.’

  They were waiting, each passing the time in their own way. Jake was writing to Katie, sending her quite an essay by the looks of things, and Tommy was picking up little rocks and pegging them lightly at the back of Nige’s neck. Nige looked up at the trees nervously each time; the others had told him drop bears were common in this part of the world too. Mayflower was studying Japanese and Cliffy was singing quietly to himself, a rude little ditty he’d picked up in Port Moresby to the tune of ‘My Home in Tennessee’:

  A map of Germany was where I’d never been,

  And up and down her hips was a line of battleships,

  And on her kidney, on her kidney,

  Was a bird’s-eye view of Sydney…

  Michael checked his watch impatiently. It was almost midday and they’d been sitting here since breakfast. He had already decided this was the part about real war he hated the most – time wasted was time to overthink things: impending danger, his responsibility for the others. Junie. He made a futile attempt to resist walking into that painful part of his mind.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the Christmas gift yet again, running his hand over the silver lighter, reading its inscription: Burning Palms, December 1941. A strange choice, he thought for the hundredth time. Did she really think he would ever forget that night? Her face came to him, eyes dark in the moonlight as she lay on the sand, crimson feathers soft on her brow. He needed no reminder of it; he could never erase that image, reckoning it would be the last thing he thought of before he died.

  Michael lit a cigarette then shoved the lighter back into his pocket, trying to shove thoughts of her away too. Surely it was enough to focus on the approaching enemy without worrying about his foolish heart and what it might choose to envisage if death came their way.

  ‘You know, I’m not too sure about calling ourselves the Elite up here. People might think we’ve got tickets on ourselves,’ Jake said.

  ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ said Cliffy. ‘How about the Eventually Got Heres?’

  ‘The Egotists?’ said Tommy.

  ‘Empty-Noggins?’ continued Cliffy. ‘Actually, looking at Mayflower, how about the Eggheads?’

  He was obviously enjoying this game but the distant shelling was intensifying and Michael held up his hand. Cliffy immediately fell silent. The sound of machine guns echoed and Michael wondered just how long they would be kept away from the action. At least they’d got this far – quite a few planes had crashed, visibility and air raids proving hazardous, and with the mist now settling into a still layer of fog any kind of landings were deemed impossible. Captain Stone was in quite a state about it. He’d been wrangling with poor communication in the radio room all day and Nige had been in there trying to help them get better reception.

  Apparently Kanga Force, the collective name for the Australian soldiers up here, had been involved in a lengthy arm wrestle with the Japanese for control of these ridges. Decimated and disease ridden, the Australians were nonetheless currently engaged in intense fighting. The battle they could hear was only a few hours’ walk away and the Allies were desperate for the weather to clear so they could land fresh troops.

  It was frustrating for the newly arrived Elite who were itching to get to the Aussie captain, Bill Sherlock, and help stall the advance, but so far they’d been told to wait.

  ‘We’ll need you here if they break through,’ was Captain Stone’s curt reply when asked if they could move out.

  Michael stood and paced, restless as the sounds of combat co
ntinued. They knew Sherlock only had a hundred or so men, including reinforcements from 9 Platoon. God only knew how many Japanese were out there. Spying the American captain walking towards the radio room once more, he decided to try again.

  ‘Captain,’ he called, running after him.

  ‘Not now, Riley,’ Marlon said, striding fast.

  ‘Sir,’ Michael insisted. ‘The men are stinging to go down. All this waiting –’

  ‘I don’t care if you’re bored, Riley. I told you before, this is war, not training. I’m not sending you boys in there without numbers.’

  ‘Yes sir, but it sounds to me like numbers are falling,’ Michael replied, ‘and you’ve got Buckley’s of landing reinforcements in that.’ He pointed at the white haze surrounding them. ‘Would you rather we just waited here like sitting ducks?’

  The captain paused, then turned to face him with a sigh. ‘Better than dead ducks.’

  ‘We’d rather go to it than wait, Captain. It’s what we’re trained for.’

  Marlon stared at him as the sounds of muffled explosions reached them both.

  ‘Captain,’ called one of the men from the communications room as he ran towards them. ‘They still can’t get past from Black Cat.’

  ‘Damn!’

  Michael knew Marlon was wavering so he waited as the captain scratched his head and stared down the hill.

  ‘All right, Riley, get down there, but for God’s sake, keep your heads down.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  The Elite were up and off almost as quickly as Michael gave the order.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked Jake as he stuffed his letter away.

  ‘Rather fight than wait,’ Jake said, grinning. But behind that grin Michael knew he was scared. They all were. The American captain was right about one thing: training isn’t combat.

  They arrived amid ferocious fighting.

  ‘Corporal Riley, Elite squad,’ Michael panted, not saluting Captain Sherlock. Green he may be, stupid he wasn’t.

  ‘Some kind of commandos, I take it,’ the captain said briefly, glancing at the patches on their shoulders as he moved along the lines.