A New Place

by Andrew Wareham

  The command to march was given in speaking voice; half of the men stayed still. A voice called from the cover of the rear ranks.

  “Sorry, sarge! Didn’t hear you.”

  Sergeant Baker froze, controlled himself, brought the half-company back into its column and then called the order again. They marched behind him, grinning.

  “Lieutenant Jerningham, have you full tropical kit?”

  “No, sir. Not with me. Back at my billet, sir. I could send my servant back in the lorries to collect it for me, sir.”

  “Your what? No officer under the rank of general has a servant in Papua, Lieutenant Jerningham. Send for your kit, by all means, but remember that you will carry it on your back when we march out. You do not require mess dress, or undress uniform. Two sets of working uniform is all, together with two pairs of boots and all of the socks and underclothing you possess.”

  The men drew their uniforms and were taken to the barracks huts they would use for the two nights. Sergeant Baker accepted an issue as well, looking for a victim to carry it for him. He saw George just waiting for him to step out of line, picked up his gear himself.

  “Ten minutes to line up outside for inspection.”

  Baker stood in front of the first man in line.

  “Those boots are a disgrace! They will be shining by morning parade!”

  George was waiting his chance to slap Baker down.

  “Sergeant Baker! Boots will be waterproof – that means greased up. They cannot be polished. Nor can belts. Webbing will not be blancoed, either. The men will be clean and tidy by all means. There will be no parades.”

  “Sir.”

  “Dismiss the men to the cookhouse, now, Sergeant. One hour to eat and they will then report to the armoury.”

  “Sir.”

  “Without shouting, Sergeant Baker.”

  George made his way back to the Intelligence offices, found Fred sat with tea and a plateful of bully beef sandwiches.

  “Help yourself, George. What are they like?”

  “The lieutenant’s a complete dick. The sergeant ain’t much better; I’ve threatened to break him and he ain’t very happy. I would hazard a guess that he’s sent a message back with the lorries to battalion demanding help.”

  “If he has, then he’s a private. Gross indiscipline.”

  “He should have enough sense to know that. He’s got to be thirty, must have ten or twelve years in, maybe a bit longer.”

  “Promoted for being able to kiss arse, and not much use for anything else, at a guess. He’s just the sort Colonel Patterson would value. Eat up!”

  “Bloody good bread, Fred.”

  “Bakery in town, run by an Italian family, been here for twenty years, he told me. One son in the navy, the other in the air force. Good bloke. What’s wrong with the lieutenant?”

  “He’s got no idea – carries a cane and needs his servant. He was ordered out on detached duty but left his gear in his billet, because nobody told him to bring it with him. You saw he brought forty riflemen but left their rifles behind.”

  “Hopeless. Keep him with you until you get to Moresby. If he shows useless then, dump him on their staff and pick up someone who knows the country. Don’t let him get away with being sent back to sit on his backside in his depot.”

  “Probably what he’s hoping for, thinking on it, Fred. Where’s the armoury?”

  Jack the sentry guided George to the proper place, introduced him to the sergeant in charge, old in the rank.

  “Orders are for forty men plus one sergeant and two officers, sir. Equipment for the bush, sir.”

  “Captain Hawkins, sergeant. We will be walking out into inland Papua, trying to map out tracks for the army, and especially for the Americans. No transport.”

  “Yes, sir. You first, sir?”

  “I’ve got a Thompson Gun, sergeant, and a revolver. All I need is a second drum and forty-five calibre rounds.”

  “Easily done, sir. Bring your piece into me, sir, tomorrow, and I shall strip it for you.”

  “Will do. Thanks. Lieutenant Jerningham, you next.”

  “Oh. I have a thirty-eight revolver, sir. And twelve rounds.”

  “Have you handled a Thompson?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you a forty-five sidearm, sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. Pump action shotgun as well, sir? Loaded ball?”

  “Excellent! Just right for the bush. How many have you got?”

  “Six available, sir, and a thousand rounds of ball.”

  “Good. One to the lieutenant, with two hundred rounds. If it makes sense, we’ll take at least one more.”

  Lieutenant Jerningham found the shotgun rather heavy but consoled himself that he could give it to one of the men to carry for him. He was so unwise as to suggest this to George, recoiled in horror from his explosion of anger. He stood silent as George took over the half-company.

  “Sergeant Baker, what is your weapons training?”

  “Rifle, sir. Only.”

  “Then you must take a shotgun, two hundred of ball and a dozen rounds of snake shot. Corporals next, automatic weapons preferably.”

  A discussion with the armoury sergeant disclosed only one Bren Gun in the stores.

  “All got sent off to the Middle East, sir, when the Regulars went off in ’39 and ‘40. Picked up just the one since.”

  “No sense having just the one Bren. Got any Lewises?”

  “Got a dozen, sir, with the big pans. Best thing is to put the men into threes, sir. One big bloke to carry the gun and one pan. No rifle and a light pack, sir. Two with him to carry rifles and two pans, sir, and full packs, including his blanket and waterproof sheet. Worked that a few times on manoeuvres up here, sir.”

  “That accounts for thirty-six men. The four left to carry a rifle and hand grenades?”

  “Better that every man except the Lewis gunners carries two grenades, sir. They ain’t that heavy. Your four men could be the corporals, sir, kitted out with Lanchesters. Got ‘em off the Navy a few weeks back, did a bit of a swap, you might say, sir, for some stuff what turned up here.”

  George asked no questions about their provenance; his sole problem was that he had never heard of them.

  “Bit of a copy, sir, you might say, of the German MP 38, sir, the old ones. Heavy, but she takes a fifty round straight mag. A sod to load, needs the proper loader, what I have got, sir. Nine mil Parabellum rounds, what I also happen to have, sir. Reckon she’d be right for the bush, sir.”

  “She’ll do me, sergeant. Thanks for your help – we’ll need be well tooled up for the bush up beyond Moresby.”

  “Heard that you were going North, sir. Sooner you than me, mate!”

  “Can I borrow you tomorrow? Show the blokes how to handle and field strip the Lewises and the Lanchesters?”

  “Bring ‘em in for eight o’clock, boss. Take a couple of hours, that’s all.”

  “Thanks. Your help is appreciated.”

  George turned to Sergeant Baker, stood seething over a new shotgun, still in its factory grease.

  “Get that cleaned, Sergeant Baker. Do it yourself. Organise the platoons this afternoon. I want the four Lanchesters one to each platoon, obviously. Lewises, three each, you might have to swap some men around to do that. Make sure the pans are allocated correctly. I want the reserve rounds spread across all four platoons. Corporals to carry extra grenades. You to have at least eight, as a reserve.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make sure the riflemen know how to field strip the Lee Enfield and to use their loaders. Inspect all rifles as being in tropical order for the morning. Men to be at liberty from six o’clock till midnight.”

  “Can’t be done, sir. Most of the men are awaiting disciplinaries, sir. No leave for men on charges, sir.”

  “Scrap the charges. All of them. We are on active service now. Training camp discipline ends at its gates.”

  George returned to the Intelligence offices, found Fred waiting for
him.

  “All ready, George?”

  “Yeah. Should be good, Fred. I’ve tooled the men up as heavy as I could. Lewises and automatic carbines. Means a heavy load which will slow them walking in the bush – but I reckon it’s more important to have firepower than to run fast. Can you lay hands on forty-two bush knives for me?”

  “Will do. I’ve been talking to Doc, George. He thinks you should have a trained medical orderly with you.”

  “Good idea. He’d have to carry his own gear, or most of it. If there’s funds and food available, I’ll pick up some boys as carriers, give them half a dozen light stretchers as well, if they exist. He’d need a tent, probably – that might not be possible, we’ll see how it goes. He’d need be fit to go, Fred – it’s going to be hard walking over the hills and up into the mountains.”

  “See Doc. He’s got a bloke lined up, if you want him. For the rest, I’ve got everything except the dropping panels – you want the orange cloth that you see on windsocks at airfields, don’t you?”

  “That’s best. I’m no pilot, couldn’t ever get the hang of it, but I’ve flown enough to know that the colour can be seen for miles – stands out in the bush.”

  “I’ll see what can be picked up. Might have to fiddle it with the Air Force. If I can’t get hold of it immediately, I’ll have it sent up to follow you.”

  “She’ll do, mate. Thanks. One more thing, socks – the blokes were issued two pairs. I’ll show you the scars on me feet as proof, but you need four pairs a day, if possible, and spares for next day while they’re washing and drying. Get open ulcers on your feet from sweating in your boots and it can kill you. Straight, Fred!”

  “Two hundred and fifty-two pairs of socks. Cotton, I presume?”

  “If you can. Sounds bloody stupid, but it ain’t.”

  “Bless your cotton socks, indeed. They’ll be to hand by end of tomorrow. Mick! Tell your Yanks they need to order a quarter of a million pairs of socks over and above normal issue – that will keep ‘em happy.”

  A New Place

  Chapter Two

  “Kiernan, sir, Medical Orderly, reporting for duty.”

  George stared in amazement at the figure in front of him.

  Kiernan stood more than six feet tall, slender and willowy but well-muscled. His uniform had been carefully tailored, fit his figure elegantly. He wore half-boots, trousers tucked tidily into them. His slouch hat was a copy of the issue in better material but sat precisely on his curly locks. He wore over-size pouches on his belt and had a knapsack at his feet that was at least twice the size of the regulation.

  “Welcome to the unit, Kiernan. You will need a bush knife – not as a weapon but for clearing ground to work on. You might prefer to carry a side-arm. The Japanese don’t believe in non-combatants. Have you got your own gear in that knapsack, as well as medical supplies?”

  “Groundsheet, socks and underpants and a tin of bully and a packet of navy biscuits, sir. One water bottle. All I need, sir.”

  “Two water bottles. Other than that, you’re right. Make sure you have six pairs of socks minimum; your shreddies are your own business. We will probably be able to bring a tent along – we should have boys to do some of the carrying, under current plans. Have you training in tropical medicine?”

  “Yes, sir. Born up at Port Douglas, sir. Know me way about the bush, sir.”

  “Even better.”

  “I did three years of medical school, sir. Didn’t want to miss out on the war when it got local, sir.”

  “Well done. I shall want you to march with the main group in the bush. I reckon we will normally have one platoon up and the other three a few yards back. Don’t go up front, or not without picking up a gun.”

  “Will we have a wireless, sir, to call for a plane to evacuate our sick?”

  “No. Too heavy to carry conveniently in the bush, and no airstrips for a plane to land on.”

  Kiernan made no comment, to George’s pleasure. It was obvious that men would die whose lives might have been saved at a base hospital; there was no gain to complaining, that was the way it was.

  “Sergeant Baker!”

  The sergeant doubled across from the half-company where he was watching as they learned to strip and clean their new weapons.

  “Private Kiernan is our Medical Orderly. He will not perform fatigues or stand guard. Where and when possible, there will be a tent pitched for use as an aid post.”

  “Sir.”

  “Good. Carry on. Private Kiernan, check with the QM for any extra medical issue you may wish to carry.”

  George was sure that Kiernan would have everything he could use in his pouches and on his back. The order simply put him out of Baker’s way for the rest of the day.

  Jack the sentry came ambling across with the request that George should report to his general.

  “Fred wants to see you, mate. Now, if it’s convenient.”

  “On me way, Jack. Take over, Lieutenant Jerningham. As soon as the men are released from the armoury send them back to barracks to get their gear ready for moving out tomorrow. Free time this arvo, they can go into town, back for evening meal.”

  “Yes, sir. Can I go into town this afternoon, sir?”

  “Of course. Don’t get too drunk.”

  Jerningham did not regard that as a witty comment.

  “I wish merely to procure a few necessities of life, sir.”

  “Feel free. Not too heavy though, you will be carrying them.”

  “Fred, you wanted to see me?”

  “Yeah. Organisation tomorrow. You are flying up to a station at the north of Cape York. Three DC3s should be enough for all of you. Arranged for a six o’clock take off – they say flying will be better then.”

  “Always is first thing, Fred. Less bumpy before the sun’s had the chance to heat the air up.”

  “Right… Always better to fly men in first thing, you’d say?”

  “If they ain’t used to flying then you’ll save a lot of spewing that way.”

  “Worth knowing. Anyway, there’ll be a Royal Australian Navy corvette waiting for you. She’ll time herself to enter Moresby at night. The run’s a bit more than three hundred miles, take it slowly through the Gulf, two days and a night, arriving before midnight, probably. Drop you quayside there – she’s small enough to come to the wharf, which makes life easier. She’s used to the conditions, being on anti-submarine patrol in the Gulf.”

  “Good enough, Fred. What’s a corvette?”

  “Eleven hundred tonner; small and cheap to build. Not very fast but quicker than a sub can go underwater. Useful for all sorts of little jobs – she can poke her nose into just about any fishing harbour, can carry a few tons of stores along the coast or drop off a party of men on a raid. The Poms have got them working the Atlantic convoys. We’ll be doing the same on our coast soon enough.”

  “Sounds like she’ll do. I shall nip off home for a couple of hours this arvo, Fred, make me farewells.”

  “Do that, George. Be a fair old time before you’re back in this neck of the woods. Use my car.”

  “Thanks, mate.”

  Morning saw the half-company at the airfield, all present and not too much hungover. George called Lieutenant Jerningham across to him, saw him struggle to walk under the load of kitbag, side-arm and shotgun.

  “I’m in the leading Dakota. You to number two, Lieutenant, and Sergeant Baker in three.”

  “Is Sergeant Baker here, sir? Colonel Patterson was in Cairns last night; he said that he was to speak to Major-General Higgins, sir, explain that the sergeant was too useful to him to allow him to be sent off.”

  George grinned – he had spoken with Fred before turning in the night before.

  “Sergeant Baker is here, look.” He pointed to a figure stepping down from a three-ton lorry. “Colonel Patterson has been relieved from duty and sent back to Sydney. He is to be replaced by a more useful officer who will bring in proper training for tropical conditions. In fact, Lieutenant
Jerningham, that looks rather like the colonel now, in a staff car. No doubt on his way to his own plane.”

  “I expect they have promoted Colonel Patterson, sir. Given him a larger command elsewhere. Far too good an officer just to be sacked, you know.”

  “He is useless, Lieutenant Jerningham. He wants to fight the Battle of the Somme, marching his men into the machine guns. Possibly, being an Australian, he would rather rerun Gallipoli. Whichever, he is no bloody use to us. He is being sent back to an office where he will be able to do the least possible amount of harm. The general has recommended that he should never have a field command.”

  “Oh! Well I think that’s a jolly shame, sir. A very good sort of man, sir, and one who will be missed in the battalion.”

  “Very loyal of you. Get across to your plane and make sure it is fully loaded. Spread Four Platoon equally between the three Dakotas. Make sure that nothing is left behind.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  George spotted Kiernan, stood separately, unsure which plane was his.

  “With me, Private Kiernan. When in transit, always attach yourself to One Platoon. It will make it easier if we know where you are.”

  Kiernan marched across to the Platoon, told the corporal he was ordered to them, was put into the line waiting to walk aboard the plane.

  The pilot of the leading plane – presumably in command of the flight – stood in his doorway, whistled across to George.

  “Load ‘em up, Captain. How’s things, George?”

  “Pretty good, Bruce. When did you join up?”

  Bruce was probably twenty years older than George, had been flying out of Lae since before George had arrived there.

  “Got the offer a couple of years back, mate. Thought I was going to the bombers, but they shifted me across to Transport a few months since. Reckoned I was too old to be sent over to England to train up on the big four-engine jobs they’re flying over there. No worries, mate, I’d rather be back in me own country anyway. I’ll be working out of Moresby as soon as they’ve got a few Spits up there. Is that Bob Kiernan you’ve got with you? The fast bowler?”