Fear Drive My Feet

by Peter Ryan

  The track was good, though it climbed steadily and the kunai slopes gave way more and more to areas of forest. The creeks were crystal clear and cold as they tumbled through their rocky courses.

  A couple of hours’ steady walking brought us to Munkip, a tiny village on the way to Gain. The ‘doctor-boy’ greeted us and we sat down for a few minutes in the shade of the house-kiap to catch our breath and glance at the remarks in the village book.

  In peacetime, local government of the natives had been organized along the following lines: Three natives in each community were appointed by the government officer to be village officials. The luluai, or headman, was the senior, and would probably have been a leader of his people in their primitive state. Being an older man, he frequently had not learnt to speak pidgin English, the lingua franca of the Territory, and so a somewhat younger assistant and interpreter was appointed, called a tultul. The tultul had usually been away for a period of employment on a mine or plantation, and so had some slight acquaintance with the ways of the white man. The third village official was the doctor-boy, who had received elementary training in hygiene at one of the native hospitals and who also knew some of the principles of first aid. The official insignia of these three dignitaries was a peaked cap, sometimes of incredible dilapidation. It bore one broad red band, like a staff officer’s cap, for the luluai; two narrow red bands for the tultul; and a white band with a red cross for the doctor-boy. Wearing their caps, and a loincloth round their middles, it was the custom for them to greet the kiap at the entrance to the village, each usually giving his own fantastic version of the military salute.

  The village book contained the names of all people of the village, arranged in families. Births, deaths, marriages, and migrations were recorded by each officer who made the yearly census of the village, and at the back of the book were entered his comments and general remarks, and hints for the next visiting officer. It was to these remarks that we now turned, in search of any chance information about the country through which we were passing.

  One interesting fact came to light: a company had sought the right to obtain kunai-grass in the area for the purpose of manufacturing paper. It was news to Les and me that the wretched stuff could be used for anything except thatching, but apparently it can yield paper of a very good quality. However, no active steps had been taken to put the project into operation.

  We were thirsty after the long climb up from the bottom of the Erap Valley, and asked the doctor-boy for a drink of water. He shouted to one of the women, who presently hurried along with a length of green bamboo full of clean, cool water from a nearby creek.

  The use of these bamboos was another instance of the extraordinarily clever way in which these so-called primitive people had adapted themselves to their surroundings. The bamboos were cut in lengths up to five feet, and three or four inches in diameter. The interstices, or ‘joints’, were then knocked out with a long pointed stick, and the result was a clean, strong receptacle holding two or three gallons. It was a common thing every morning to see the women come up from the creek bearing two or three of them across their shoulders, the tops neatly stoppered with a wad of green banana-leaf. Smaller lengths were used for cooking purposes. Food was packed tightly into them, and they were placed on the fire for the contents to bake. When the food was cooked, the charred bamboo was broken away from the outside. An even more ingenious use of bamboo was in the irrigation conduits that were sometimes seen bringing water round parched hillsides from a spring to a flourishing patch of taro, often over distances of many hundreds of yards.

  We drank and moved on, through the little rushing creek and out of the bush, to a steep kunai spur. Native fashion, the track followed the crest of the ridge – the shortest way, perhaps, but certainly the steepest – and led us to a forest-covered mountain. It was hard going, and the sweat soaked our clothes and dripped off our faces as we struggled uphill. But we did not mind, for the higher we went, the cooler the air would become, and the fewer the mosquitoes.

  By midday we had reached a small hamlet called Badibo, where we halted to boil the billy. The local natives gave us a pineapple, which, with the tea, comprised our lunch. We bought some fine bananas, too, and the natives assured us that they had plenty of food.

  ‘We are getting near the promised land now,’ said Les. ‘Just over this hill is Gain, the first village of the Wain country. The people there can grow almost any fruit or vegetable.’

  It took an hour and a half to reach the top of the next ‘hill’. The track, wide enough only for single file, climbed through thick forest all the way. The trees had been cleared slightly at the summit, and it was possible to look across the plain we had left behind, to the Markham. At the distant edge of the plain the great stream gleamed dully in the afternoon sun. On the south bank, where the hills came close to the water’s edge, was the kunai spur of Kirkland’s outlined against the dark background of the jungle. Through the binoculars we thought we could see a faint plume of smoke above the place where we knew the camp to be.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘we’re a long way from home now, if anything happens.’

  We began the short descent of the other side of the hill to Gain, thinking enviously of Tom Lega and his five men at Kirkland’s, mosquito-ridden and unhealthy as the place was.

  Apparently the news of our coming had been sent ahead from Bivoro or Munkip, for the luluai, tultul, and doctor-boy of Gain stepped forward to salute us as we stopped in front of the house-kiap, and the village had a scrupulously neat look, which was usually lacking when a surprise call was paid.

  The Wain country was to be my home for many months, and I grew to love it all. It contains many beautiful sights, but I have always had a specially soft spot in my heart for Gain village, possibly because of the contrast with the hot, flat, mosquito-ridden Markham. The house-kiap, a little apart from the village, was set in a grassy clearing on the hillside, whence one looked across the deep valley of the Upper Busu River towards tiers of blue mountains rising ever higher as they receded into the distance. The Busu, a considerable stream even here, flowed into the Huon Gulf not many miles from Lae as a large muddy river. The hills, dotted here and there with gardens, were every conceivable shade of blue. Drifting smoke from some of the gardens indicated that the owners were clearing new ground. As Les had said, the natives grew abundant and varied crops in the rich red-brown soil – we were to see that this country was as productive as it was beautiful. The luluai shouted to the women that we wished to buy food for the police and some fruit and vegetables for ourselves. The food had obviously been gathered in anticipation of our visit, for within a few minutes half a dozen chattering grass-skirted women carrying large bilums, or string bags, walked across the clearing towards the house-kiap. They carried their bilums by putting them over their backs and suspending them by a string that passed across their foreheads. If the strain became too great the women would walk with hands clasped behind their heads to relieve the backward drag. In this fashion, loads that would almost have broken a mule’s heart were carried. Often you could hardly see the woman who carried the load, which consisted of perhaps forty pounds of sweet potatoes, the next day’s stack of firewood, a cooking-pot or two, and sometimes a child to top the pile. But no doubt they were used to it, and they seemed remarkably cheerful as they spread their wares on the grass, each standing by her pile waiting for me to buy.

&
nbsp; The tultul translated my question into ‘talk-place’, or the local dialect, for the women did not speak pidgin. ‘Do you want salt, money, newspaper, or tobacco?’ I asked.

  Without exception each chose a handful or so of coarse salt, and carefully parcelled it up in a leaf tied with vine. They were obviously delighted with their bargain, which astonished me when I looked at what I had received in exchange. There were piles of cabbages, sweet potatoes, English potatoes, tomatoes, papaws, bananas, sweet corn, and pineapples. The German Lutheran Mission, which had been established in the area for many years, was mainly responsible for the presence of these imported plants, and one could buy fine-quality English potatoes almost anywhere in the mountains of the Huon Peninsula, though they did not thrive in the low-lying coastal areas.

  With a confidential wink, the luluai sidled up and handed me a small bundle tied up in a filthy rag. I opened it gingerly, to find six eggs. The old man’s grin spread from one black ear to the other as I called out delightedly to Les, ‘Hey, look at this! Eggs for breakfast!’

  ‘Good-oh – they’ll go well! Buy ’em and don’t break ’em!’ Les said enthusiastically.

  I was about to give the old boy a shilling and a smoke when Kari stepped quickly between us. ‘Master, you no can buyim! Me tryim first time suppose ’em ’e stink!’

  Kari had been told to look after me, and he was taking it seriously. He called for a dish of water, but since none of the eggs floated we reckoned they were good, and handed over the payment. We also asked the luluai and tultul to come up to the house later in the evening, so that we could have a chat.

  ‘Wash-wash’ was the next item of camp routine. Two buckets of water were heated over the fire in the ‘house-cook’ – a small shelter attached to the house-kiap – and a couple of banana-leaves were spread on the ground for a bath-mat. With a mug we poured hot water from the bucket over ourselves, lathered up, and rinsed the soap off with more hot water from the mug. All this was watched by an interested throng of natives of both sexes and all sizes. It was the only way in which I took a bath in the next year or so, for to bathe in the icy streams of these mountains was to invite an attack of malaria.

  Though Les had a couple of natives as servants and camp usefuls, we had no cook, so I prepared dinner myself. The menu comprised fried tinned sausages, cabbage, potato-chips, and fried tomatoes, and fruit salad, followed by several pints of very strong and excellent coffee made from coffee-beans grown in Wau – I had taken care to scrounge a big tin before setting out for the Markham.

  Les sighed with delicious anticipation as I put his meal in front of him. ‘By God, that looks good!’ Settling the plate firmly on his knee, he ate ravenously.

  Except for the sausages our meal was all of local produce. In this country the only rations we had to carry were the typically European foods – tea and sugar, tinned milk and meat, jam, biscuits, and flour. Fresh meat could sometimes be bought from the natives – they only had to kill a fowl or a pig. And if you had a shotgun you could sometimes bag a pigeon, which made succulent eating.

  Dusk was approaching when we drained the coffeepot and lit our pipes and sat on the edge of the house, which, like all native dwellings in this district, was built on piles a few feet above the ground. As we smoked, we watched the shadows darken in the valleys and the mountains change from blue to deep purple.

  Through the glasses we picked out two iron-roofed houses on a distant hillside. These were the buildings of Boana Mission, the Lutheran headquarters for this area, and former residence of several German missionaries. Boana had long since been abandoned, for the missionaries had been either interned or removed to Australia. The buildings were also damaged, for Japanese strafing planes, under the impression that our forces were in occupation, had attacked the mission one morning and partially wrecked it. The question now was whether the Japanese would come and take charge. Boana was a sort of focal centre for the Wain, and was only a couple of days’ journey from the enemy base at Lae. It seemed certain that soon the Japanese would venture into the mountains and establish a post there.

  Though we had not received an unfriendly welcome, we were a little worried about the attitude of the natives towards us. Would they refuse to co-operate when we made the reasons for our presence known? More than twenty years before the Australian administration was established in New Guinea, German missionaries were exploring the Huon Peninsula and making contact with its people. Some of these missionaries were unfriendly to the administration, and they had not encouraged the natives to co-operate with any white men except themselves. Because of their greater numbers and more or less permanent residence in one district, they naturally had a greater hold on the natives than the transient government officer had. Although all these European missionaries had gone we feared that their influence would persist, for we knew that some of the native mission helpers (or ‘black missions’) also bore the government no great love. We felt a greater sense of confidence, however, when we were told that most of the ‘black missions’ had left their posts and returned to their home villages. Now, perhaps, we would have a chance to influence the natives to our way of thinking.

  It had become quite dark. The evening was very cool, and we pulled on sweaters and long trousers. I felt contented as I sat and watched the little disc of Les’s pipe glow and fade. A good dinner, clean clothes, a pipe, and a cool, pleasant climate – what more could one ask at the end of a hard day’s walk, I thought, as I compared this with evenings at Bob’s, where one sweated all night and slapped continually at mosquitoes. Below us in the valley the Busu River thundered as it rushed down towards Lae. Across the little clearing came the murmur of conversation and an occasional roar of laughter from the police-boys. We saw the flicker of their fire and the red points of their cigarettes. Les and I sighed as we knocked out our pipes to refill them. In the midst of war, it seemed, one could find peace.

  A quiet ‘Me fella come up now’ announced the presence of the luluai and tultul. They had approached so silently on their bare feet out of the darkness that we had not heard them. They squatted down close by, and we passed them a couple of sticks of tobacco and some newspaper. While they rolled their long cigarettes we talked, the tultul translating our remarks from pidgin English to ‘talk-place’ for the luluai, and rendering the old man’s comments into pidgin for us.

  We chatted generally about the war. They knew the Japs had driven us out of Lae, and they wanted to know what the situation was in other parts of New Guinea. We told them of our growing strength – of the planes which would bomb Lae and Salamaua in ever-increasing numbers, and of the great base being built at Port Moresby. Yes, they knew Lae was already being bombed more heavily – the explosions could be heard clearly in Gain as the sound travelled up the valley of the Busu.

  ‘But what about men?’ they said. ‘The talk comes up to us from Lae that there are more Japanese there than there used to be white men in the whole of New Guinea in peacetime. There are now only four white men that we know of for certain: you two here and the two over there’ – they waved their hands vaguely over the hills where they supposed Jock and Ian to be.

  We told them of our successes at Milne Bay and Kokoda, and that before very long we would be in a position to regain Lae. We also impressed on them the necessity for avoiding any contact with the Japanese, and for hiding in the bush if any Japs came into the area. They ag
reed to do this readily enough, for stories had come up from the coast about the harsh treatment of the Lae natives by the Japanese.

  The conversation drifted to other topics – food and gardens, and the scarcity of pigs. As they left to return to the village, we told them that we wished to leave early next day, and asked them to make sure that sufficient carriers were available by daybreak.

  We lit the hurricane-lamp and undressed, filling a last pipe to be smoked in bed before going to sleep. It was three-blanket country here, and the world seemed a pleasant place as we stretched out on our bed-sails. The risky journey up the Erap had been accomplished safely, the local natives seemed well disposed, and we were happy.

  We took a last look across at the house-police, which was now silent. Squatting by the dying embers of the fire was the sentry posted by Corporal Kari. His black skin shone in the faint light; when he drew on his cigarette the whites of his eyes gleamed, and the shape of a fixed bayonet could just be discerned.

  ‘Well, shut-eye now,’ said Les. ‘We must be on the track before sparrow-fart tomorrow.’

  I was too nearly asleep to reply.

  III

  IN THE morning we drank a cup of tea by the first grey light and were on the road again. A dozen men would have been enough to carry our gear, but we were surrounded by a throng of people, all anxious to help. Chattering loudly in their own tongue, tiny brown-skinned lads seized lamps and buckets and other light articles and fell into line with the men carrying the heavier loads. Of course, this was not done purely out of a desire to work: they knew very well that they would share in the distribution of salt and tobacco at the end of the carry. But there was a good-humoured spirit about the whole line of carriers which made us confident that even if the enemy’s propaganda had penetrated as far as this, it had failed to stir up feeling against us.