by Peter Ryan
We hurried down the Erap again, stopped for the usual welcome cup of tea and gossip with Tom Lega at Kirkland’s, and rushed straight through to Bob’s. The men fell upon the parcel of brus, tearing leaves out to roll themselves cigars, upon which they drew fiercely, exhaling with luxurious contentment. We had arrived in the middle of their worst tobacco famine, and none of them had had a smoke for days.
Next morning I was surprised when Bill Chaffey called me to the orderly-room. There was a phonecall for me from Kirkland’s. Tom Lega’s voice, faint and blurred, came out of the earpiece. ‘One of Jock’s police-boys has just swum across the river!’ he said excitedly. ‘He’s got a letter for you, and he’s coming on at once to Bob’s. He says Jock got back across the range O.K.’
I was so excited that I hardly thanked Tom for calling, but slammed the field-telephone down and strode off along the track to meet the policeman. About half-way to Kirkland’s I saw him come round the bend and I recognized him as Nabura, an intelligent man who could read and write a little. He was weary, and though he grinned when he saw me he was too tired to quicken his pace. When we drew near to one another he fumbled in his haversack and handed me a thick bundle of papers tied together with a piece of vine. This was Jock’s official report to the district officer, with a short note to me asking me to type out a copy of the report for him, and to forward the original to headquarters. The note said Jock would wait in Bawan for my return.
The official report told of the crossing of the range; of the cold that had almost killed Jock and his native companions; of the dreadful storms; of the rocky cave in which they had sheltered one night; of the wild bush kanakas who had attacked them. He had reached the north coast and come upon a lonely Australian there watching the activities of the Japanese as they moved supplies in barges round the coast from Madang to Lae. At a coastal village he secured a canoe and travelled with his boys to the island of Sio. It was not occupied by the Japs, but they visited it periodically. A Japanese reconnaissance plane flew low over Jock’s canoe on his return journey to the mainland. He dropped into the water and remained hidden under the decking while the plane circled above. His boys kept paddling doggedly, expecting at any moment to be sunk by a burst of machine-gun fire, and eventually the Jap pilot decided it was only a harmless native fishing-party, and flew away. Jock scrambled back onto the canoe, thankful that the sharks had left him alone, only to find a few days later that his immersion had resulted in a case of ‘coral ear’, an intensely painful infection that lies in wait for anyone unlucky enough to get tropical sea-water in his ears. In his note to me Jock said he was in such pain that he was practically living on aspirins at the camp in Bawan, and he asked me to get something from the doctor to fix the ear up.
I hurried back to Bob’s, where Bill helped me type the report. Then we got medical supplies from the doctor, and the few items of food that could be spared. I was going to return to the Wain next morning.
At dawn we woke to the deafening roar of aeroplanes. The thunder from the bombing raids on Lae was terrific, and went on ceaselessly. Through the trees we saw flight after flight of our heavy bombers droning over, and soon a phonecall from Kirkland’s told us that enormous columns of smoke could be seen downriver, and that all Lae seemed to be ablaze. I decided to defer my return until we knew what was happening. There was another ring from Kirkland’s, a personal one for me, and I almost fell out through the grass wall of the orderly-room when I heard the voice. It was Jock!
‘Ear’s too bloody crook!’ he bawled into the phone. ‘Can’t sleep at all, so I’ve come in to see the doc. Be seeing you in an hour or two.’
I hurried down the track to meet him. He was much thinner than when we had parted, and it was plain that the journey had affected him. ‘Bastard of a trip,’ was all he would mutter, however, concerning the crossing of the range itself.
Bill Chaffey was waiting for us back at Bob’s. He took us aside to talk quietly, and though his tone was humorous his expression was troubled.
‘I’ll tell you what all that racket down at Lae’s about,’ he began. ‘We’ve had a signal to say that the Japs have a big convoy of ships there, and they’re unloading reinforcements and a hell of a lot of stores. Our planes have been belting hell out of them since dawn, but naturally there’s a lot of gear and troops got ashore in spite of it.’
Jock and I were silent.
‘You know what it means, don’t you?’ pursued Bill.
‘Yeah,’ said Jock, rubbing his bristly head thoughtfully. ‘It means the Nips are going to hang on in Lae and Salamaua and drive all us poor bastards out of the bush and out of Wau and right off this side of the island.’
‘What about you blokes staying here?’ Bill asked. ‘We can get away through the bush all right from here, if they come up in force. If you’re across the Markham you’ll be trapped.’
Jock squatted on his heels. I noticed that his sandshoes were worn out and that the tropical ulcers on his legs were eating bigger and bigger patches out of the flesh. ‘Point is this, Bill,’ he said after a pause. ‘If the Nips are going to take over in Wau, there’ll be more need than ever for us to keep in touch with the natives and see what’s going on. I think we could manage to live in the bush there.’ He turned to me. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘I’ll give it a go if you think so,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t care to try it on my own.’
From then on, things moved so quickly that the rest of the day was a confused jumble of events. By evening I found myself, with Watute and Dinkila, asking Tom Lega at Kirkland’s for a bed for the night. Jock had to remain for a few days to have his ear treated, but would join me at Bawan as soon as he could. And all the time, in the background, there was the roar of our planes and the rumble of the bombs on Lae.
Next day, just after dawn, Tom had the canoe ready for me to cross the river. He had become used to saying goodbye on the banks of the Markham, but he made it pretty plain on this occasion that he didn’t expect to see me again. His handshake was firmer and longer as he followed the canoe out into the shallows.
In midstream we looked suddenly upriver. Almost at water-level three Beaufighters were bearing down on us. We reckoned it was the finish, for our planes had had orders to regard all movement along the Markham as hostile. They saw us, banked off, and came at us in another run. The boat’s crew sprang overboard and struck out for the shore, leaving Watute, Dinkila, and me rushing downstream wildly. I snatched my slouch hat off and waved it frantically above my head, almost overbalancing the canoe. Watute did the same with his khaki cap. In spite of the panic we were in I felt a momentary pang of annoyance as my pipe slipped and fell into the water with a dull little plop. Then, with a screaming whistle, the three planes passed over us. They had recognized us in time, and with wings dipping in salute they hurtled off towards Lae. At the rate the current was racing us seaward we would soon be in Lae ourselves if we didn’t do something about it, so we paddled madly with our hands and managed to land the canoe on one of the islands. Through the field-glasses I saw the boat’s crew get new paddles from the landing and start swimming over to us, to finish the journey so ignominiously interrupted. While we waited for them I became conscious of something like a pebble in my mouth. It was the end of my pipestem. Apparently I had bitten it clean through in the excitement.
When we reached Bawan two days later the t
ultul was waiting for us at the outskirts of the village. With an apprehensive glance up the track that led to my house he drew me nervously aside.
‘Master, this-fella police-boy, name belong ’im Buka, ’em ’e long-long finish. Me-fella fright too much long ’en.’
He was telling me that Buka had gone mad, and went on to explain that he was rampaging round the countryside, stark naked, brandishing rifle and bayonet, threatening to rape all the women and shoot all the men. The tultul said that Buka had not actually molested anyone yet, but the people were all too scared to leave their houses, and no gardening had been done for days.
Watute stepped forward as the tultul finished speaking.
‘It’s the full moon, master,’ he said. ‘It’s happened before, but he’s never harmed anyone yet.’
The tultul was watching me anxiously, and I was vaguely conscious of other scared faces peering round the corners of the houses, so I said in a firm and confident voice that Buka would be kept under control, and we moved on to the house. I had not the faintest idea of how we would deal with the situation, and when I caught sight of Buka I was really frightened. He was squatting naked by the fire at the end of the house-police, crooning a senseless, monotonous tune. His usually fat and jovial face seemed wasted and sullen, and his eyes were dull and empty. He took no notice whatever when we spoke, so Watute climbed up beside him and quietly grabbed his rifle and bayonet and handed them down to me. Then we went into my house to consider what to do.
Watute reckoned that Buka would soon be himself again, for in the past the attacks had seldom lasted longer than a couple of days. Disarmed, Buka was now much less dangerous, so I accepted Watute’s suggestion that he and Dinkila should take it in turns to watch him, and I told them to call me instantly if he attempted to leave the house or wander down to the village. We hid the rifle in the thatching of the roof, and Watute returned to the house-police while Dinkila prepared my tea.
I was filling an after-dinner pipe by the fire when soft footsteps padded across the veranda. A quiet voice at the doorway said, ‘Master!’ The tultul had pushed aside the canvas cover of the door and stepped inside.
‘What is it, tultul?’ I asked.
‘Master, one-fella piccaninny, ’em ’e sick too much. Papa belong ’en like you come lookim.’
This was the first time they had asked me to see a sick person outside the usual morning ‘visiting-hours’. I picked up the medical kit and followed the tultul out into the cold night and down the track to the village. He led me to a small house near the edge of the cliff, and helped me through the tiny doorway. The hut, its timbers and grass roof smoke-blackened and glazed, was so hot that I could hardly breathe. The smouldering fire in the middle of the floor gave off a little light and a lot of smoke, and I could see the sick child’s mother and father squatting in the shadows by the back wall. When the fire blazed up a little I saw the hopeless look on their faces.
The child, a boy about eight years old, lay stretched out naked on the rough floor near the fire. His head was resting on the lap of a hideous old woman – probably the grandmother, I thought, shuddering at the sight of her. She too was almost naked, and her whole body was covered with a grey, scaly skin disease. One breast had shrivelled almost to nothing, while the other hung, skinny and straplike, to her navel. Her head was shaved. From time to time, through shrunken toothless lips, she mumbled, dribbling and idiotic. As I stooped to look at the child I glanced up and saw her glinting old eyes flash hatred. Then she stared straight ahead and ignored me.
The child’s pathetic, skinny body was rigid, the stick-like limbs immovable. The eyes were turned up so that only the whites showed – and they were not really white, but a muddy bluish colour. When I touched the eyeballs there was no more reaction than if I had pressed my finger on a marble. His pulse was so feeble that for a while I could not detect it, and thought he was dead already. The tultul leant forward and picked up a piece of wood from the fire. He blew gently on it till it flamed, and then held it close to the child’s head so that I could see better. Death was already in the little black face, I thought, and put the glowing stick back on the fire.
I could not treat a disease I was unable to diagnose, and anyhow I felt certain that the child was beyond help. No one spoke. As I squeezed out the doorway the mother and father looked bewildered, and the old woman followed me with her eyes, detesting my interference. I felt angry at my own helplessness.
The cool air outside was like a cleansing bath after the murky stink of the little hut where death was waiting just a few minutes longer. In his quiet, calm voice the tultul thanked me for coming. The child’s father would be grateful too, he said, though unwilling to say so in front of that terrible old woman.
I walked slowly back to my house and raked the fire together. Life is bloody tough for these people, I thought, as I stared into the coals. They were naked both bodily and morally, victims of every cruel and senseless whim of fate and nature. But not quite naked, perhaps, when one recalled their gentle, stoic patience. The cloak of their philosophy was probably no more threadbare than the scientific cloak in which civilized people have tried to shroud themselves for the last half-century.
A piercing, terrible wail shivered through the air from the village. It was like a dog howling, but infinitely tragic. The child was dead. I went to the door and looked out. Little points of light moved in the blackness where the village was, as people came out of their houses holding torches. The wailing became general, taken up, swelling and fading, by every voice in the community. Sometimes low and moaning, sometimes shrill and harsh, it went on all night.
Tossing wakeful on my bed-sail, I remembered Jock’s idea of trying to visit the Chinese prisoners in the compound behind Lae. These people would have on-the-spot news of the Japs’ recent landing of reinforcements, and perhaps some knowledge of how they intended to employ them.
The more I thought about it, the more exciting the idea became. I decided not to wait for Jock’s return, but to go alone next morning. To the sound of the weird wailing down the hill, and with one ear cocked for any sound of trouble from Buka, I sat all night over my maps and notes of the country between Bawan and Lae, trying to work out the safest approach and to devise escape-routes in case we were discovered.
I was still making notes and sketches when dawn showed the grey outline of the doorway. As I went outside to call Dinkila, a loud, hollow banging echoed from the village. The men were knocking together a coffin from rough hand-hewn planks, to bury the little boy.
Buka seemed sane again – but exhausted, like a man who has just been on a hectic drinking-jag. He had no recollection of what he had done or said, and seemed mildly surprised to see us all. I decided to leave him in camp and to take only Watute and Dinkila down to the Chinese camp.
The three of us set out about eight o’clock, carrying blankets, a little food, trade goods, and a tiny hurricane-lamp. We had our usual arms, and our pockets were stuffed with hand-grenades. I told the tultul of Bawan that we were merely doing a routine tour of the villages and would be away two or three days. To make sure that gossip could not precede us, I did not tell even Watute and Dinkila our real destination until we were well clear of Bawan. Dinkila’s eyes lit up at the prospect of excitement, but Watute merely gave his queer tight little half-grin and said nothing.
‘Did you know where we were going?’ I asked.
‘I guessed,’ he said. ‘After all, we’ve got all these hand-grenades, and you’ve got those maps and papers. I realized it wasn’t going to be just routine stuff.’
We walked fast all day, over ridges and valleys, drenched alternately by sweat and icy river water. We did not stop to eat, for safety depended on speed – to get in and out again before unfriendly natives could warn the Japs. Evening found us in a little village called Lambaip, near the edge of the foothills behind Lae. The few people in the village greeted us quietly, showing neither hostility nor enthusiasm. They gave us some vegetables to eat, and pointed out an empty house where we could sleep.
We were to be on the track by four o’clock next day, so I divided the night into three-hour watches – mine from seven o’clock to ten, Watute’s till one o’clock, and Dinkila’s till four.
Among the Lambaip kanakas Dinkila found an old friend with whom he had worked in Lae. The two of them talked and laughed so loudly at bawdy peacetime recollections that in the end I yelled at them to shut up, so that I could go to sleep. Dinkila came sheepishly to the door, leading his friend.
‘Master, this friend of mine will come with us tomorrow, if you like,’ he said. ‘He knows the language of all the villages on our way.’
I held the little hurricane-lamp up. The boy was young and merry-faced like Dinkila, and was nodding his head in energetic agreement with the proposal.
