It had started after the battle in Wadumi when the locals began to show up to help them carry out the wounded. Michael had been struck by their care of each man that day and continued to grow more and more fascinated with these gentle men of the forest. The company was journeying towards Mabu and the two New Guineans were carrying heavy supply packs without complaint. They’d brought with them Patrick, the missionary, who’d been living under Japanese occupation in a native village for some time and couldn’t seem to stop praying in thanks since their liberation – hence regular Mass along the track. The Elite didn’t really mind – a bit of prayer couldn’t go astray after the hell they’d witnessed.
Patrick Kilkelly was almost as interesting as the natives, a very tall man from Tenterfield who’d followed a life of service after losing his young wife many years ago. With no children to care for, Patrick had decided he’d dedicate the rest of his days to the Lord, taking the Gospel into the wild lands of New Guinea like a prophet entering the Garden of Eden itself. Michael was fascinated by his story, which Patrick shared quietly on the side of the track each night, and he wondered at the courage of the man. Without the war, Michael doubted he ever would have left Australia. To take off into these almost impassable mountains armed only with a Bible, and live among people who still wore grass skirts and lived in huts on stilts seemed incredible.
‘Weren’t you afraid of cannibals?’
‘Yes,’ said Patrick, ‘although there aren’t many in this part of the country.’
‘Didn’t you worry about malaria?’
‘Not after the third time I contracted it.’
‘Don’t you miss home?’
‘This is home.’
Michael’s curiosity grew, and he asked not only the obvious questions, but the not so obvious ones, the reflective ones that had begun to underscore his recent experiences.
‘Don’t they have their own gods?’
‘That’s not the point, is it? God doesn’t discriminate, Michael. He has us all.’
‘But they don’t believe in our God, do they?’
‘It doesn’t change the fact He is there.’
Michael often went quiet after Patrick said things like that. He didn’t know what to believe any more, not after witnessing good men die in the prime of their lives. What divine purpose was there in that?
‘What does it matter whose God it really is if He lets bad things happen?’ he eventually asked Patrick.
‘Maybe He doesn’t let bad things happen. Maybe they are planned.’
‘What, just to torture us?’
‘To test.’
Some nights Michael would roll over and swear to stop talking to this frustrating, strangely calm man. But once the others went to sleep and there were no further distractions save the forest, the rain and the occasional distant rumble of war, he found himself continuing the conversation despite himself.
‘What a godless place to talk about God,’ Michael said, after one such discussion was interrupted by an intense downpour.
‘If you think that then you’re not paying attention.’
That night Michael dreamt he was in Eden and it was being bombed. The jungle floor fell away behind him with each explosion, and he ran in fear only to find there was but one way out: logs over black torrents. He took a step but it was slippery and he saw then the logs were covered in blood. Too late to pull back, he stumbled and fell, deep into the black, the thunder of guns around him, and he screamed his terror.
Then something caught him and he was safe once more on the forest floor, trying to open his eyes to see his rescuer before they disappeared. But all he saw was a flash of crimson feathers that faded into light.
‘Here y’go, sport,’ Cliffy said, tossing some biscuits to Ovuru, who immediately shared them with Semu. They never asked for the same rations as the Australians and weren’t supposed to receive them, but the Elite – or the Eggheads, as Cliffy now liked to call the squad – were having none of that. Equal share for equal effort was the unanimous consensus.
Cliffy’s were the first words spoken for some time, the track being particularly steep today, leaving no room for wasted breath, but they were rewarded with an impressive view across a buckling carpet of hills and ridges, and their favourite pastime: smoko. Cliffy and Liquorice were doing the honours and the billy was boiling away by the time Michael had checked his compass and map. It was still a fair walk but they were making progress, despite the mud. Better still, Nige had managed to get through on the radio at last and they’d got an update from Wau.
‘Captain Stone’s flown back to Port. Something’s definitely going down.’
That didn’t surprise anyone. The Japanese were bound to make another move since their recent defeat and Michael had figured it would be sooner rather than later. He just wondered how much it would affect what greeted them at the end of this trek.
‘Anything else to report?’
‘A few skirmishes down your way. Nothing too serious but some natives were saying there were Jap raids –’ crackle ‘– villages.’
Again, that didn’t surprise them. The dead they came across were all skin and bone. It was obvious the Japanese were still starved for supplies but it was telling that they would steal from the locals. What few they had on their side would quickly turn on them at this rate and native loyalty was a big thing to sacrifice in this part of the world.
They were beginning to lose the line to familiar grainy noises and Jake leant over.
‘Any mail?’
‘Not yet.’
After the communication ended, Michael left a dejected Jake to check the mud for any tracks and walked over to sit next to Patrick and Mayflower. The priest was chatting to Ovuru and Semu in a few words of native language, which Mayflower was trying to learn.
‘Do you speak much of their lingo?’ Michael asked as Mayflower wandered off to scribble some notes.
‘No, not really,’ Patrick said. ‘There are hundreds of languages up in these parts.’
‘Really? I thought they would all speak a common one.’
‘Well, there is Tok Pisin, but not everyone speaks it. New Guinean people are…let’s say very tribal. Each tribe owns their own land, each has their own customs and yes, dialect or language, and each are very protective of what’s theirs.’
‘And their own religions?’
Patrick smiled. ‘Yes, Michael, their own gods too. I think we’ve covered this, have we not?’
‘Just checking you were paying attention.’
They sat in companionable silence, punctuated by the chatter of the birds and, less idyllically, Cliffy’s singing further down the track.
‘Hitler had only one brass ball…’
Michael laughed. ‘Don’t bother trying to translate that one, Father.’
‘No, I don’t think I will,’ he agreed, laughing too.
Semu and Ovuru were watching them and Michael wondered how they felt about this war that had arrived in their backyard. It must seem as alien to them as this primeval landscape was to him.
‘Do they fight?’ Michael asked.
‘Not like this, sir,’ Semu said, pointing at Michael’s gun.
Michael looked at him in surprise. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you could, er, understand me. I mean, speak English.’
‘Bit,’ he said with a sheepish grin. ‘Not good.’
‘He didn’t want you to know – bit embarrassed he isn’t better at it,’ Patrick explained.
‘Better than my effort at his language.’
Semu’s grin widened.
Michael pointed at the weapon. ‘You don’t know how to shoot a gun?’
‘Never try, sir. But can…uh…’ He finished his explanation by imitating what looked like spear throwing. ‘Ovuru better.’
‘That he is. He’s a well-known warrior among his people,’ Patrick said.
Michael looked at Ovuru’s proud, tattooed face and felt a bit ashamed he’d let them carry the heaviest load. Suddenly gi
ving them biscuits didn’t seem a very adequate amount of respect. Semu must have noticed Michael’s frown at the packs and he held up the pale palm of his hand.
‘We carry, you shoot.’
Ovuru nodded in agreement and Michael decided he’d leave it for now. Maybe that was their way of feeling valuable. And truth be told, their strong muscles and stamina were of immense value in this steep, difficult terrain. They made the Elite look rather average in comparison.
‘Okello,’ Ovuru said, nodding pointedly at Patrick then Michael.
‘What does that mean?’ Michael asked Patrick.
‘That’s his brother’s name. I think he wants me to tell you about him.’ Patrick and Ovuru exchanged a few words in native language before he continued. ‘He’s a spy. Been with the Japs at Salamaua for some time, leaking out messages and so forth. Quite a character, by the sounds of things.’
‘Salamaua,’ Ovuru confirmed, pointing in the general direction of the town.
‘Is that why you’re here? To find your brother?’ Michael asked.
Ovuru shook his head but there was a suspicious amount of emotion in his eyes just the same.
‘I understand,’ Michael said. ‘Believe me.’ He reached for a stick and drew two figures in the dirt. ‘Me – Michael,’ he said, pointing at himself then pointing at the first figure.
‘Sir,’ Ovuru said, pointing at him.
‘Yes, all right, sir. That’s me. That’s my brother, Davey,’ he said, pointing at the other. Then he wiped the second figure away. ‘My brother will never come home.’
They all sat, staring at the blank earth, and there was pain in that silence.
Then Ovuru leant forwards, offering his hand. They shook and Michael was surprised when the New Guinean placed their joined hands on his chest briefly before releasing it.
‘Wantok,’ said Ovuru.
Michael looked to Patrick who smiled before translating.
‘Friend.’
Thirty
March 1943
Bismarck Sea, north of New Guinea
‘How many times have I told you – not straight and not level!’ Marlon yelled at Marty Harris, his newest charge.
‘And never for longer than thirty seconds when in combat. Yes, sir,’ Marty’s reply came through.
‘Then do it, for God’s sake!’
‘Yes, sir.’
Marlon knew he was being hard on the younger man but there was no room for niceties in the air, despite their stunning victories so far. The dark blue water below was littered with sinking, smoking ships, like macabre toys in a bathtub, testament that all the drills and rehearsing had been worth it. In Marlon’s opinion, the pilots under his charge were the best prepared of the war so far, including Harris. If nothing else, the Allies were getting better at killing the enemy, a necessary eventuality if this war was ever going to end.
And there had been plenty of killing today.
‘To your left,’ Marlon warned and young Harris was quick to react, sending the Zero into the ocean in the space of a few minutes.
Yes, they were well drilled all right. Professional killers.
The call came to return to base and he turned them back with relief. Another day over, another bunch of men sent to their deaths at his hands. Another night to try to sleep with that knowledge while the faceless men became part of the sea. The same sea that flowed in his saltwater veins. Now forever a part of him, too.
He was slow to move the next day, revolted by the prospect of what lay ahead. The enemy had been devastated with the loss of only a handful of Allied planes. All twelve Japanese troop transport ships and destroyers had been sunk and the gruesome job of picking off survivors trying to make for shore was underway. A ‘terrible yet essential finale’, according to Command.
‘Where to, Ace?’
Marlon looked at Harris, ashamed of the nickname that glorified how many men he’d killed but even more ashamed of what he would be asking this boy to do.
‘Finishing off,’ he said.
‘Sure thing,’ Harris replied cheerfully and Marlon wondered if he’d ever been that naïve.
Marlon didn’t say his customary ‘Ready to fly, monkeys?’ and a few of the longer-serving men looked at him questioningly. There would be no humour on offer today.
The Bismarck Sea was beautiful and brilliant, too pristine to be a graveyard in the morning sunlight, and it drew them on, closer to the task of killing once more. Only today it would be pure massacre.
The sunlit water stayed with them that morning, each mile of it taking them closer until finally they were in view of a barge filled with what must be a hundred men.
‘Strafe them,’ Marlon ordered, dragging the words unwillingly from his throat.
‘Yes, sir.’
And so they flew down, pulling their triggers, and terrified men were running, falling, diving. It was well known many Japanese soldiers couldn’t swim.
Then they were gone and the planes rose once more.
‘Poor fellas,’ said one pilot.
‘Yeah, well, they can take that for Changi,’ said an Aussie.
‘One less Jap is one less gun on our guys,’ said a third.
Harris was silent.
Marlon felt sick.
Then there was another barge. It couldn’t even be called that really, more like a battered raft with half-a-dozen wretched souls on board. One didn’t even have a helmet, just a small face staring up at them, fear evident even from a distance.
A pilot’s voice came through: ‘Ace?’
That was when Marlon realised he couldn’t do it any more. No more enemy blood in his veins. Not today.
‘Ace?’
He gave the order. ‘Turn back.’
‘But Captain –’
He ignored the voice. He ignored the ocean, the raft, the sea. He only had one objective now: to fly that plane as fast as it would take him, away from the battle, away from the death.
Away from the goddam war.
‘You know I could have you court-martialled.’
‘You could,’ Marlon agreed, past caring as he downed another whisky.
Major Hamlin took out his wallet with a sigh, ordering a drink himself. ‘They should never have asked you men to do that,’ he admitted, ‘but that’s war, Stone. Kill or be killed.’
‘I know that,’ Marlon said, feeling the burn of whisky relaxing him and wanting more. ‘I just – I couldn’t do it any more. Unarmed men like that. It’s murder.’
‘That’s what this war has become.’
‘Yeah, but what have I become in the process?’ Marlon muttered, staring into his drink.
The major didn’t try to answer that, he just swirled the contents of his own glass thoughtfully. ‘When’s the last time you had leave?’
Marlon had to think hard, not easy when your brain was clouded by half a bottle of spirits. ‘A year or so, I guess. Same as you, though, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but I’m not the one in the air,’ the major reminded him. ‘Take a week or two. Fly down to Brisbane or Sydney and get some headspace, or whatever it is the doctors call it these days.’
‘Is that an order?’ Marlon asked him, gesturing at the bartender for two more drinks.
‘One of my easier ones.’
‘S’pose it’s better than a poke in the eye with a blunt stick.’
‘If you’re going to come back talking like the locals, I’d say stay away from Darwin.’
‘Yes, Major,’ Marlon agreed as the new drinks were poured and he took a sip. ‘No fear on that score.’
But the truth was he couldn’t stay away from Darwin. It followed his every day and haunted him at night, and with every mission the violent suddenness of death poisoned him further, polluting his saltwater blood, which he diluted with alcohol to numb his reality.
He couldn’t leave Darwin any more than he could leave Hawaii or New Guinea, because they were etched into the map of his mind, tattooed there forever; a garish gallery of war. Adventures onc
e undertaken so lightly were now experiences he could not erase, no matter how diluted his blood became.
But yes, he would go to Sydney all the same. Find a bar and work on that dilution.
However he knew the war would follow him wherever he chose to go. There was no taking leave from that.
Thirty-one
March 1943
Sydney, New South Wales, Australia
Junie’s slightly sweaty palms clenched and unclenched around the strap of her handbag as she tried to adopt a cool and composed expression.
‘Perhaps you should try a smaller course of studies at first. Have you considered teaching?’ asked Professor Rickard, looking over her letter with little enthusiasm.
‘No, law is definitely my preferred choice,’ she said carefully. It seemed her first battle had commenced even before she’d attended a single lecture.
It was raining outside in a cool, half-misted drizzle and Junie had experienced the full impact of the university’s grandeur as she’d made her way to the main quad. It was both beautiful and intimidating: Gothic spires pointed to the sky as if daring those who entered to achieve and the lawns were immaculate green carpets – a sumptuous welcome to those worthy enough to be here. She’d had vague notions of Brontë novels as she watched a single crow circling the turrets, and it was the thought of those wonderful sisters that had pulled her shoulders back and propelled her forwards. This is not a man’s domain. Intellect belongs to us all.
But that defiance had been immediately challenged as she’d crossed the quad and noticed she was, in fact, the only woman around. And there were many men in uniform; they’d spoken in murmurs, sending her wary looks, and Junie had felt the ambiguity of university politics surround her. Sydney University may be a modern place in terms of the war but tradition still underlined every other aspect. By the time she’d sat in Professor Rickard’s visitor’s chair she knew an opinion of her had already been formed, and not a favourable one. She was a married woman with a baby at home, wealthier than most and without the ‘need’ for an education. She may have won her case with Ernest and her parents but this was a bigger hurdle – if she wanted to study law she’d need to show this man something more than what her papers confirmed.
Worth Fighting For Page 21
