Browning Battles On

by Peter Corris

  Browning Battles

  On

  By Peter Corris

  Copyright © 2014, Peter Corris

  First published by Angus & Robertson, a division of HarperCollinsPublishers, 1993

  For Tom Thompson

  For help in the preparation of this book the writer wishes to thank Jean Bedford, Mr John McCallum, Dr Stewart Firth and the staff of the National Film & Sound Archive.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  NOTES

  1

  Someone once told me that Ghengis Khan was at war for the whole of his life. I don't imagine he lived as long as I have, but even so it's a frightening thought. I've been in three or four wars, one way and another, and I can't say I have pleasant memories of them. Swaggering about in uniform with money in your pockets and the girls giving you the eye is all right, but there's precious little of that compared with square-bashing, brass-polishing, saluting officers and picking lice out of your pubic hair. That's my experience anyway. But what's even worse than being a soldier is being a civilian, a non-combatant, and being taken for a soldier, and an enemy at that.

  In August 1944 it looked as if I was set to enjoy the latter part of World War II about a hundred times more than I'd enjoyed World War I, say, or the Mexican Revolution. I was flying from California to Australia, togged up as a US army captain, looking forward to a very rapid promotion. I was cast as an Australian general in a propaganda film to be entitled 'South Pacific Showdown'. Except that there wasn't going to be a film—it was all an elaborate charade got up between the War Department and some Hollywood patriots. What I'd actually be doing was providing a smokescreen behind which a real propaganda film was being made. Still, it promised to be a soft billet for Dick Kelly, which was the name I'd be going under—good hotels, ample food and drink, plenty of bowing and scraping and a decent pay cheque at the end of it.1

  Things came badly unstuck when the B52 crashed during a rainstorm, killing everyone on board but me. I scrambled out of the wreckage into a reeking jungle and punctured my skin in a hundred places scrambling through the bush to get clear of the plane. It didn't explode but, just as I was giving thanks for that, I fell into the hands of a dozen or so soldiers of Nippon. Not one of them stood over five foot four or weighed more than eight stone—in fact they were looking pretty famished, but they'd kept their bayonets shiny bright and all seemed anxious to test the sharpness on my hide. I threw up my hands and babbled that I was a friend with a great admiration for their Emperor, although I was damned if I could remember his name at that precise moment.

  They surrounded me, jabbering away and thrusting with their bayonets as if they were each trying to pick a tender spot. It was dark and raining but one of the Japanese carried a big flashlight which he tried to keep trained on my face. I was ducking away from the pig-stickers so much he had a hard job doing it and in the wavering beam I caught glimpses of their faces and the dense jungle all around us. We were in a small clearing, flattening it as we moved and I was pretty sure that clearing was going to be my burial place.

  'Don't kill me,' I said. 'I surrender. Prisoner of war. Geneva Convention.'

  One of the bayonets, held more steadily than the others, came to rest just below my Adam's apple. I looked down at the shiny steel and then slowly looked along the length of the rifle barrel up into the face of my executioner. He wore thick glasses with metal rims and he had gold fillings in his teeth. I could see the teeth because he was smiling.

  'I hope you've got some cigarettes on you, buddy,' he said. 'Some of these pals of mine are ready to kill for a smoke.'

  'What?'

  'You heard me. Don't act so surprised. How do you think a Jap houseboy knows when to open the door and wash the car if he can't speak American?'

  I still couldn't take it in. 'I'm not an American.'

  'No?' The tip of the bayonet sliced through my tie, which had slipped down a few inches. 'You look like a US army captain to me, sir!'

  The 'sir!' was pure mockery and the bayonet was back at my throat. 'I'm an Australian.'

  'Yeah? Like Errol Flynn?'

  There was probably nothing else he could have said that would have caused me to do what I did next. I pulled back a fraction, grabbed the barrel and hammered the rifle butt into his chest. He gasped and reeled back, leaving me holding the weapon. Wrong way round, of course, and with a dozen or so rifles pointing at my head, but still . . .

  The English-speaker recovered fast. He grabbed back his rifle. 'You've got balls.'

  'I've also got cigarettes,' I said. 'Probably a couple of hundred cartons. Tell that to your pals.'

  He spoke rapidly but the news didn't seem to swing the meeting in my favour.

  'They're not impressed, buddy. We saw the B52 come down. We can find it in the morning. The feeling is, who needs you?'

  'The plane's booby-trapped.' The idea, no doubt picked up from some movie or other, jumped into my head and I came straight out with it. Very convincing, but a good line needs a good piece of movement to back it up. Like all heavy smokers I always carried two packs. I undid the flap on my jacket pocket, reached in and pulled out my Camels. The next thing I knew an umbrella had opened and I was standing under it. Eager hands were reaching out for the cigarettes. I produced my Zippo and lit maybe ten cigarettes. The soldiers stood around in the rain, puffing and cupping the smokes in their hands.

  'Not having one yourself, Captain?'

  'Dick Kelly's my name. I'm a civilian. I figure I might need them for something more important, like saving my life. Who're you?'

  'Sergeant Haruki Kaminaga. Bet you can't guess what my employers called me in Honolulu?'

  'Harry?'

  'You got it, Dick. I never did like that.'

  That's the way it is in dangerous situations, the danger ebbs and flows, comes from different directions. The soldiers were enjoying their cigarettes and there couldn't have been more than three or four rifles pointing at me, but now Harry the houseboy seemed to be recalling past insults and slights. Here was his chance to get back at the people who owned the houses, cars and pools. He took off his glasses and wiped the water away with a piece of cloth. I noticed for the first time how down-at-heel these guys were. Their uniforms were crumpled, muddy rags; their boots were gaping and they all looked in need of a good feed. Only their weapons were well maintained.

  Harry replaced his specs. There was some stirring amongst the lower ranks and I put the Camel packet into the fist of the biggest of them—a bantamweight who looked as if he could fight at nine stone if he got a few bowls of rice inside him.

  'Harry,' I said. 'The B52's loaded with smokes, booze and food, all of which you guys seem to need. Let's be friends.'

  'You're doing it. Calling me Harry.'

  'You can call me Dick.'

  He laughed. 'Dick. Yeah, that's another thing. I don't suppose you've got any women on board?'

  I shook my head. 'No women, and everyone's dead but me. Where the hell are we?'

  He stared at me through his clean lenses. 'That was going to be my next question to you.'


  'Shit, you mean you don't know?'

  The other soldiers got tired of standing around in the rain listening to a foreign language. They muttered. The bantamweight muttered loudly. Harry did what any smart sergeant does—he did what his men wanted to do while making it look like his idea. He rapped out a few orders and I found myself slogging through the bush, four back from the man with the flashlight and a machete who was lighting and clearing our way. The umbrella had disappeared. I was soaked to the skin, but I only felt the poke of a bayonet once or twice. That's probably OK under the Geneva Convention.

  After about fifteen minutes walk we came to a small clearing in the jungle, not a natural clearing, but one that had been hacked out by hand. Several large fires were burning and in their light I could see a huge shape looming up behind the camp. It was grey and mostly covered by branches and vines that had been thrown over it. Through the camouflage, small patches gleamed dully in the light from the fires.

  'That's our kite,' Harry said. 'Mitsubishi bomber. Came down a month ago.'

  'Rainstorm? Lightning strike?'

  'Yeah, instruments went haywire.'

  We were standing outside an improvised shelter, a tarpaulin draped over a rough wooden frame. Harry's voice dropped to a whisper. 'This could be a bit rough for you, buddy. Stick to the booby-trap story and you might be OK.'

  A man emerged from the shelter. He was slightly taller than the other Japanese and not as thin. His uniform was better cut and in better nick. An officer, getting the best of everything available, if ever I saw one. He spat out an order and a rifle butt hit me behind the knees. I sank to the ground and kept my head down, looking at the officer's polished boots. Above me, a brisk conversation was going on between Harry and the officer with an occasional comment from other parties. I heard fingers snapping and risked a glance upwards. The bantamweight handed the now pretty deflated Camel pack to the officer. You've seen one army in action, you've seen them all.

  There was a hissing sound and I looked up again. The officer had drawn a long sword with a slightly curved blade from a scabbard. With the firelight winking on it, the blade seemed to glow. I was instantly sorry for every unkind act I'd ever done, every mean thought. I was about to start babbling for mercy when Harry's beach-boy drawl lightened a moment that badly needed lightening.

  'Lieutenant Okano here is a prize asshole who doesn't speak English,' Harry said. 'He's uncomfortable because a lowly NCO like me does. If he gets uncomfortable enough he's likely to order your head removed. Be a good idea for you to drop that head a bit lower if you want to keep it. I wouldn't go so far as to lick his boots, but you get my drift.'

  I bowed lower.

  The sword touched the back of my neck. I waited to hear the intake of breath that would accompany the upward swing. There was nothing I could do. You can't move fast from a kneeling position. I could duck but that was likely to have nasty side effects. What Joe Louis said about Billy Conn flashed into my mind: 'He can run, but he can't hide'.2

  Then the lieutenant was talking. Harry spoke. The lieutenant became angry. Thanks a lot, Harry, I thought. Harry remained calm. The sword was resting on my neck now and if I hadn't had thick, wavy hair back there it would have been cutting me. My mind was numb. I could feel and hear things. My eyes were clenched shut. The rain stopped. Then the slight weight was lifted and I heard the whispering sound of its being re-sheathed. I breathed out slowly and took another breath in. A sweet one, that, a bonus breath.

  'He buys the booby-trap story, so you can look forward to tomorrow. You can ask a question, but keep it humble.'

  'After you get the goodies from the B52, then what?'

  'That's something you and me'll have to talk about. OK, get up and give him a salute. Try not to look six foot two while you're doing it.'

  I saluted Lieutenant Okano from a crouch. He sniffed, turned smartly and ducked back inside his shelter. Harry jabbed me with his bayonet.

  'Did I just hit a bible or a flask?'

  'Flask,' I said.

  'Thought so. Let's find us a dry place to drink in.'

  We repaired to a spot close to the fuselage of the plane. Harry barked some orders and a fire was quickly built and lit. We squatted down with our backs to a group of soldiers who were playing some kind of dice game. My clothes steamed in the warmth of the fire. Harry took out a pistol and put it on a rock near his right hand.

  'Got any more butts, Dick?'

  I produced the other pack. Harry ripped it open and tossed half the contents to the dice players. They grunted their appreciation. I took a cigarette myself and offered the pack to Harry.

  He shook his head. 'I got enough vices. Speaking of which

  I lit up and took out my hip flask. In it was about half a pint of Early Times bourbon—'sippin' whisky' as the good ol' boys call it, also talking whisky. Harry took a slug and let out a sigh of satisfaction.

  'Better,' he said. 'Much better. Enough of that stuff and I could forget I'm sitting in a stinking jungle, the fuck knows where, with a bunch of assholes looking for ways to get themselves killed. Present company excluded, of course.'

  I took a tiny sip. 'Right. Have another drink.'

  'Don't mind if I do. I spotted you right off, Dick. It was in your eyes. You ain't no hero.'

  He never said a truer word, but I couldn't let him walk all over me. 'The life I've led,' I said, 'if I was a hero I'd be dead.'

  'Let's put our cards on the table. What's the most important thing on your mind right now?'

  I was still feeling such relief at having my head on my shoulders that I hadn't done much thinking with it. But it wasn't a hard question to answer. 'Getting out of here in one piece.'

  'Not winning the war, shit like that?'

  'Hell, no. Well, I hope my side wins, but if it doesn't I'll just have to cope.'

  Harry took another drink, wiped his glasses again and stared at me in frank admiration. 'You ever studied philosophy, Dick?'

  I shook my head. My precious, still attached head.

  'You appear to have a philosophy. Seems it goes something like, "the world doesn't exist if I'm not in it".'

  'Well

  'I'm not knocking it. Don't get me wrong. You're my boy. Soon as I saw you I could feel a plan coming on. Have a little more bourbon.'

  I did. I had a feeling I was going to need it. Planners can be dangerous people; some of them think that once the planning's over they've done their bit, and that leaves you to put the plan into operation. Fortunately, Harry was more of a consultative type. 'We both want to survive the war, right?'

  'Right.'

  'And neither one of us knows where the fuck we are, right?'

  'Well, we know the general area. How did your lot get here?'

  'We left New Ireland or New Britain, I never knew which one we were on, to go to the Philippines. They stripped the bomber and put a hundred or so of us on board.'

  I looked around the camp. I could see perhaps twenty men grouped near the fires. There were bound to be sentries—say, six—plus Harry, plus the lieutenant in his pavilion. 'You lost a few.'

  Harry nodded and finished the bourbon in one big swallow. He handed me the empty flask. 'Lost half when she crashed. We've sent out a couple of search parties since. No-one came back. We're down to twenty-three men not counting Okano, which I don't on account of he's no use for anything. He'd skewer me for telling you our strength, by the way.'

  'I'll take it as a sign of trust. The B52's not booby-trapped.'

  'Never figured it was, but thanks.'

  It was a pity we didn't have any bourbon left to seal our mutual understanding. I was feeling tired after all the stress and strain. The whisky and the warmth of the fire made me drowsy and I yawned.

  'I don't quite cotton to you, Dick,' Harry said. 'I had you pegged as slightly yellow, but you grabbed my rifle back there and now you're yawning like it's time for your nap.'

  'I'm lazy,' I said. 'So where d'you reckon we are? Some place in New Guinea?'


  'Most likely, which brings me back to my plan. Some parts of New Guinea are controlled by your side and some parts by mine, right?'

  'That's right, last I heard. But we've got more of it.'

  'So I'm a gambler.'

  I was genuinely tired and having trouble following him. The ground we were stretched out on started to feel soft and even the rocks had a comfortable curve. 'I don't get you.'

  Harry leaned closer and whispered, the way he always did when what he had to say mattered. 'This is my plan. We cut out of here tonight, you and me. We raid the B52 for supplies. If we run into my people, you're my prisoner. If we come across any of yours, vice versa. Whaddya say?'

  'I'm tired. Not tonight.'

  'Buddy, it has to be tonight. Believe me, you don't have any nights to spare.'

  2

  After a while a soldier who looked to be about twelve years old delivered Harry a disgusting-smelling mess in a tin dixie. Nothing for yours truly. Harry spooned it down in a second, belched and put the tin aside.

  'Sago,' he said. 'You wouldn't be able to eat it. But I've gotta keep my strength up. The thing is, all the guys here are so weakened by starvation and illness that they fall asleep at the drop of a hat. Sentries'll be snoring before midnight. Stand up, Dick.'

  I was half asleep myself and I thought Harry might be proposing a visit to the latrine which would have been welcome. I got creakily to my feet and he felled me with a blow to the neck, delivered with the side of his hand. He shouted as he struck and he kicked me in the ribs as I lay in the dirt.

  'Moan a bit.'

  I moaned.

  Harry shouted again and a soldier came up carrying a length of rope. Harry trussed me up, rolled me on to my back and spat in my face. For a minute I thought he'd turned on me, then I saw the wink. A few soldiers gathered round and Harry jabbered at them. Harry had taken possession of the flashlight. He shone it on my wet face and made a remark which his comrades found very funny. Then everyone lost interest in me. The dice players went back to their game. Harry wrapped himself in a blanket and stretched out on the ground a few feet away. I lay there, with spittle drying on my face, my ribs hurting, scratches itching and with sundry other aches and pains. What have I done to deserve this? I thought. I've never offered any offence to man or beast. Women maybe, but that was all a matter of hormones, beyond my control.