A New Place

by Andrew Wareham

  George thought for a few seconds.

  “No Empire?”

  “Be gone inside twenty years, George.”

  “Then it’ll be independence for the Territory, Fred. No choice. Makes it easy enough for me, mate. I was going to sell up everything down South, except for the two plantations; I ain’t now. I’ll talk with Mr Tse, obviously. But I reckon I’ll keep a good lump of the old man’s money, and mine, working down here, ready for when we shift back to Queensland.”

  “You don’t reckon they’ll be able to make a go of independence, George?”

  “No, not that, mate. Tolai pollies won’t be any worse than Australian, once they’ve got the hang of it. Thing is, Fred, I’m a whiteskin, as you might have noticed. It ain’t my land and they’ll want it back. Why shouldn’t they? Time comes they say the land is theirs, I ain’t going to fight. Couldn’t, anyway. One plantation owner against ten thousand Tolai? You reckon the Australian army will come up to fight for me? I don’t.”

  “Fair enough, George. What will you do?”

  “Talk. Work out how the handover will go. If they want, I can stay on for a year or two, showing their people how to run the books and the exporting side. More likely, I’ll just tip me hat and say farewell. The Administration will be involved, and they can see about payment for the land – if I was a Tolai, I wouldn’t pay a bloody brass farthing to the blokes who pinched their own clan lands from them, but the Australian pollies will want to get their hands on some cash for sure.”

  Fred was none too happy about George’s proposal. He hoped to set up in a land grant of his own, intending to leave a plantation to his own young children. In common with most professional army officers, he had married in his forties and still had a growing family.

  “You’re saying that by the time I’ve built up a profitable place, I’ll lose it, George.”

  “Probably, Fred. Was I you, mate, I’d forget about a plantation. Look for a job with the Administration. Senior position, paying a fair bit, and with your Army pension as well to add on you’d be well enough off. Invest in Queensland and there’s every chance of sitting pretty when you retire. I just don’t see any future back home on the Gazelle, mate. I’ll be out before I’m sixty, I reckon. I’m going to make sure that little Ned grows up knowing he belongs to Australia, not to the Territory.”

  “Makes sense. Piece of advice, George? Don’t shout your mouth off too loud about expecting independence. The pollies ain’t going to admit it until the last minute and they won’t love any bloke who’s right when they’ve showed up wrong.”

  It made sense. In times of change it was a near-certainty that the politicians would get everything wrong and would then need scapegoats. Any local man who had been consistently right would be a target for their malice.

  “Fair enough, Fred. What do you reckon about the military bit? Do I call meself Captain Hawkins or do I become plain George again?”

  “I shan’t be calling meself ‘General’, that’s for sure, George, not as a plantation owner. Don’t reckon it would do me any favours with the run of the mill Digger.”

  “Nah, nor me, mate, thinking on it. Captain ain’t high enough to impress the Administration and it’s pointless for anybody else. The war’s over and it’s the civvy life for us all.”

  “When do you go back, George?”

  “As soon as they’ll let me, Fred. Word is that’ll be the near future. They’ll want the cocoa back in production as early as they can, or so I reckon.”

  “Family with you?”

  “They can join me as soon as it makes sense. Mary will do better to stay down here until the babe’s born – I don’t reckon they’ll have much in the way of maternity care up in Rabaul.”

  “Nor they will. From all I hear, they ain’t got much of anything up there just now.”

  George flew up to Port Moresby a week later and made the round of the ANGAU offices there, trying to discover who could give him authority to return to the plantations. It took three days before he could find an office that thought it might accept the responsibility for allowing civilians to go back to their own property.

  “Thing is, Mr Hawkins, the Army is still in charge up there. The Americans are handing over to us, but we don’t know for sure who is in charge of the Japanese POWs or what is happening with them. We are trying to get kiaps in place. You would be just the right sort for that, Mr Hawkins? Would you consider taking the position for your home area?”

  George refused, vehemently.

  “Can’t, sir. I have two plantations to bring back into production. I don’t know, obviously, but it seems likely that they will be flat – no house, no yard, no garage, no nursery, no fermentery, no copra drier, no water tanks, no warehouses. Nothing except the gateposts and, hopefully, the bulk of the trees. I shall have to organise a pair of trucks as well, I would think. As for labourers – small chance of any remaining and I shall have to recruit them as well. The Tolai won’t work on the plantations, you know, sir. I think, sir, I will be better employed bringing the plantations back into production than doing the work of a kiap, important though that obviously is. From all my father told me, the best men for the job were junior officers, subalterns, who had been demobbed and were still footloose, had no wish to go back home yet.”

  The official admitted that George might well be right; the problem was that demob was going at a crawl and the men were not yet to hand.

  “Many of our troops are still in Europe, Mr Hawkins, and are being shipped back very slowly. It seems not impossible that the war may flare up again, against Russia now, and the Army seems to want to keep troops available for that need. Add to that, there are odd civil wars everywhere, or so it seems.”

  “Certainly a problem, sir. When can I return to Kokopo, sir?”

  That was very a difficult question, it seemed. It was certainly desirable that plantation owners should return immediately, but that demanded accepting the responsibility for permitting them to travel, which was not so fine an idea. The official would attempt to discover just who was responsible for permitting civilians to enter the military zone.

  “It would be easier, Mr Hawkins, if you were a soldier, of course.”

  “I was discharged as unfit for service after the first fights on the Kokoda Trail, sir. I am sure my record will show that.”

  It would, no doubt, but the records were not to hand in Port Moresby.

  “Captain, sir, in the Militia. MC, sir, awarded for service on the retreat from Lae to Bulolo.”

  “Ah! That is different, of course, Captain Hawkins. You should have introduced yourself properly, you know.”

  George apologised, he had become used to being a civilian.

  “The arm is still not entirely right, sir. Never will be. The doctors would not pass me fit for service again.”

  “Typical of the medical types, Captain Hawkins. They could have passed you as capable of working in our offices up here, I do not doubt. We could have used the services of a man who knew the Territory. Still, too late for that now. Come back tomorrow, Captain Hawkins. I shall ask about, see what can be done. Where are you staying, by the way? Not a lot of spare beds in Moresby.”

  “In the Club, sir. Steamships.”

  The official nodded thoughtfully; Steamships had power in the Territory, and would have much more in a few years when the military was finally gone. They did not offer their patronage to every odd civilian passing through the town; if they could find accommodation for Captain Hawkins, then they had good reason for so doing. No wise public servant would cross Steamships or, by extension, those they favoured.

  George returned next day to discover that plantation owners were positively encouraged to return to their workplaces; the Administration would be happy to see the sacks of cocoa being exported as soon as might be possible.

  “Thank you, sir. What is the position regarding transport at the moment?”

  “Military aircraft fly into Rabaul every day, Captain Hawkins. American and Aus
tralian both. I am sure that a seat can be arranged for tomorrow morning. If you show yourself at the airstrip at dawn, then a flight will be available.”

  George made his thanks again and made his way into Port Moresby, calling at the Steamships main offices first, dealing initially with a junior clerk in the wholesaling department.

  “Rice, corned beef and tinned fish, Mr Hawkins. Delivered to the wharf at Kokopo every month? Can be done, sir. What sort of tonnage, sir?”

  Initially, George thought that it would be as well to send not less than one hundred tons of rice and ten tons each of bully beef and mackerel. The quantities would certainly increase later in the year. The clerk thought these tonnages were outside his remit, called for a senior man, long known to George.

  “Only if we can lay our hands on supplies ourselves, George. There is a shortage of foodstuffs the whole world over.”

  “There’ll be hungry people on the Gazelle, Nigel. The reason I only asked for a hundred tons was because I don’t know what else is going in yet. Do you know anything about Vunapope?”

  “The Japs killed the missionaries when they went in, George. What’s happened since, no idea. They’ll be back, that’s for sure.”

  “Bloody mess, ain’t it. What about shipping?”

  “Not so bad. There’s been losses, sure, but there’s a hell of a lot of landing craft hanging about, due to be sold off as surplus to requirements. Ideal for the Islands. The tank landing craft are big enough to carry a good load, up to three or four hundred tons, and the infantry boats will take thirty or forty tons apiece. We’ve been able to ‘borrow’ half a dozen and expect to lay our hands on more.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be looking to buy a couple of trucks and send them up to the Gazelle. No problem with transporting them, it seems.”

  “Come on into the office and sit down for a few minutes, George.”

  Nigel jerked his head urgently and George discovered he had spare time to drink a mug of tea with him.

  Nigel waited until the door was shut behind them and a boy had brought a tray in before he started to explain the new ways things were done in the Territory.

  “The Yanks want out, George. They want to get their blokes home as quick as they can. That means they have to get rid of their gear. None of the Yanks would walk a yard willingly. They’ve got jeeps and small trucks and big trucks and bloody great monster cargo carriers, hundreds of them. You want two trucks, you say? When you get to Rabaul, talk to the right blokes and you’ll pick up a score for fifty quid apiece, and the petrol and oil thrown in buckshee. You worked with Mick from Lae, don’t I recall, George? He’s up there now, as an officer, a major, dealing with stores and surplus. Talk to him when you fly in. But not too loudly, mate. Don’t buy anything until you’ve bent his ear.”

  “Right, mate. When you say ‘anything’, you mean just that, don’t you?”

  “Too bloody right, George. No telling exactly what’s going on up in Rabaul, just at the moment, but I suspect there’s fortunes going begging. I reckon that the Yanks are glad of anybody who’ll take stuff off their hands just now. They landed in West New Britain and must have had a hell of a lot of stores which they’ve moved up to Rabaul on a temporary basis. Some stuff’s gone back to Lae, we know, but a load more has just been written off as lost in combat. It’s a bloody shambles, George. We’ve had to be careful – can’t have too much seen in Steamie’s hands. You won’t have that worry. When are you flying?”

  “Dawn tomorrow.”

  “Right. I’ll pass the word down to our blokes. We’ve got a couple of planes lent to us at the moment. We can always put you aboard one of them if you can’t pick up an Army flight. No good trying to get aboard one of the American planes, they have passenger lists, but it’s first come, first served with the Diggers and the Poms. If there’s a couple of senior officers with their staff, they get first goes, otherwise it’s a question of who you know. Get to the strip early and see if you can spot a familiar face, mate.”

  “ANGAU said they’d have a seat for me in the morning.”

  “ANGAU says a lot of things, George. You’ll find walking quicker than relying on them to organise bugger-all.”

  “Nothing changes, Nigel.”

  “Why should it? It’s the same bloody people, just a different name, that’s all. How are you getting to the strip in the morning?”

  Nigel organised a truck to pick George up half an hour before dawn.

  “A truck can drive through the gate and drop you off at our warehouse. Go in a car and the guard party will ask who you are and what you’re doing. The gate’s shared by the civil side and the Air Force.”

  “Rapidly returning to a peacetime basis, Nigel – one huge cock-up.”

  “Like I said – it’s the same people. When they started up the wartime system, they employed all of the ‘experts’ they could find – all of the blokes who had been useless before the war were put on and managed to be useless during the war, and now they’re going to be useless after the war. Nothing changes, apart from their salaries and kickbacks – they’ve got bigger.”

  “It’s a good life for some, Nigel. I’ll see you about over the next few years, mate. I shall be coming through Port Moresby fairly often, I should reckon.”

  “I’ll probably be over in Lae or Rabaul, George. With luck, I can be put in charge of our rebuilding over there. Make a go of that and I can end up in Head Office down South. Got a missus now – she was nursing up here – and I want to get settled before I’m too much older. What about your missus, George?”

  “Six months gone, mate. She ain’t coming back up until the sprog’s big enough. My mother’s staying with her; don’t know if she’s coming back at all. We’ll see what it’s like back on the Gazelle. Me old man made enough of a pile that we don’t have to worry too much.”

  George thought it better not to mention his own successes in the business world during the war – the word ‘profiteer’ was in frequent use among those who had lacked the opportunity to put cash in their own pockets.

  The airfield was busier than George had ever seen it, full of modern planes as well as survivors from the pre-war days. There was a terminal building rather than a tumble-down shack serving to keep pilots out of the rain.

  George walked across from Steamships’ warehouse and looked for an official booking-in desk. He had a choice of four, each with a little flag waving in the breeze from the big ceiling fans. He avoided the American and British ensigns, chose the nearer of the Australians.

  “G’day, mate. George Hawkins. ANGAU was supposed to have put me name down for a seat this morning, going out to Rabaul.”

  The clerk was an overweight Australian, well into middle-age and smelling of last night’s beer. He stared at the list in front of him.

  “Hawkins, George… Yeah, got you. Top of the civilians, to go out on the first flight, if there’s space left after the forces people. Should be room for you. They seem to think yer important, so we better play along with ‘em. Daniel!”

  A Hanuabadan boy – a man in his twenties, at a guess, ran across from the back of the room.

  “Yes, master?”

  “Master Hawkins, here. To the Dakota for Rabaul.”

  “Yes, master.” The boy turned to George, asked if he had baggage.

  “One small bag and a leather suitcase, the stuff I’ve got here.”

  “Suitcase into the baggage hold, master. Bag is small enough to go inside with you. I will carry the case, master, if you will come with me.”

  Good, precise English, mission school educated and possibly some years of college in Australia afterwards; working as an office boy and porter for lack of the chance to do anything better.

  George followed the boy out to the tarmac watched him throw the case up into a Dakota and then point to the steps up.

  “Thanks, Daniel. A few months from now and we should have the plantations back running, and the hotel and garage up as well, in Rabaul and Kokopo. If you’re looking f
or work in an office, send me a letter. Hawkins at Kokopo will do for an address. Better than trying to pull up some dim-dim from Australia.”

  Daniel laughed and said that he would send the letter as soon as he heard that things were up and running in Rabaul. He heard all that was happening, in his present job.

  “Good on yer, mate. I’m not bullshitting – I need, or will need, educated men. I’ll pay decent wages, too.”

  George greeted the uniformed man standing guard at the steps.

  “Name’s Hawkins, mate. I’m supposed to have a seat on this plane. Going out to Rabaul.”

  There was a clipboard and George’s name was on it, high on the list.

  “In you get, sir. Seat at the front end, near the pilot’s cabin. Number two.”

  Highly efficient, George thought, seats actually allocated in advance. He had never known that before. He stepped in and found the number and sat down and did up the belt.

  “I’m the steward, sir.”

  A younger man, a burn scar across his face suggesting he had been invalided out of the services.

  “Never had one of them before, not on a plane, mate.”

  “New idea, sir, to keep the officers happy – they all want their coffee and biscuits, you see, sir. Can’t fly without coffee, you know.”

  “Suppose you can’t, really. Mind you, I must have flown fifty times into Bulolo and I never had coffee once then. Only crashed once as well.”

  “See? If you’d had your coffee, you wouldn’t have crashed at all. Obvious, ain’t it. Kick the bag under the seat and stay sat down until we’re up and flying, mate. Calling at Lae and then Hoskins before we get to Rabaul. Should be landing at the Kabakaul strip. There’ll be a truck into Kokopo. Nothing much in Rabaul yet. Your name’s on the list, so there’ll be a room for you tonight. Work out what you’re doing yourself tomorrow.”