He scuffed sand over the marks on the beach, at least to obscure the fact that they might have been made by booted feet, then lay down in the bushes beside his equipment and tried to sleep again. His revolver lay beside him, and he carried his cyanide tablets in his left hand, ready to pop into his mouth if need be. He thought, what a way to live, preparing oneself to die. But he hoped to take one or two with him.
Sandflies soon had him slapping, and the noise of cicadas was very loud, but yet he dozed, and awoke with a start as a ray of sunlight played across his face. He sat up, revolver thrust forward. But the beach remained deserted. It was just after six. He stood up, holstered the gun — he was wearing khaki bush jacket and shorts under a slouch hat, in preference to naval uniform — and went on to the edge of the sand. Schooten had provided him with photographs as well as the map, and he quickly identified the beach; Lazenby’s navigation had been impeccable. He oriented himself to the map, then washed his face in the sea, drank some of the contents of his water bottle and ate a couple of biscuits before leaving the beach and his gear and making his way inland, using his handbearing compass, which he carried in a holster on his left side, as a guide.
Almost immediately he began to climb, quite steeply. But after an hour he came to the rushing stream Schooten had drawn in, and then, emerging from the tangled bush, he looked up at the peaks of Kwoka, ahead to his right, and Bukit Irau, ahead to his left. Both were nearly ten thousand feet, and had provided the markers on which Lazenby had steered the previous evening before sunset. The plantation lay between them, but still some distance away.
He looked back at the sea, and a single Japanese transport, heading south east. How she must be whetting the appetites of Lazenby and his men. He reckoned he was some three hundred feet above the beach, but the ground still rose above him, and the day became very hot. He continued to climb, over long solidified lava flows now, sometimes sharp enough to tear his flesh, sometimes so slippery he found himself sliding down unsuspected slopes, quite out of control. He sweated, and kept checking and whipping out his revolver as he heard unfamiliar rustles — but they were mostly lizards. Birds chirruped above his head, and occasionally flew away in great haste; they would tell anyone who cared to know that there was an intruder in the bush. But the bush itself was his most serious enemy. It was so thick as in places to be impenetrable, its roots caught at his feet, and its thorns tore at his clothes. In the middle of the morning he was struck by a rain shower so heavy he could not walk against it. In seconds he was soaked, but then the sun came out again to scorch him dry. At least it was also dry underfoot; he had talked with soldiers who had retreated down Malaya, and heard of the horrors of fighting up to one’s neck in water, never knowing when what one was touching might be poisonous snake or crocodile. They had both in New Guinea, but not up here, apparently.
In mid-morning he stopped to rest. Thus far he had seen no one, and he had lost sight of the sea. The submarine would be submerged out there, waiting. He took his tenth cross bearing of the two mountains, and reckoned he had to be within a few miles of the plantation, went on again, and heard voices and the creak of an axle. He dropped to his knees, peered through the bushes at a rough roadway, along which a donkey cart was proceeding. One man led the donkey, another walked behind, and a woman sat on the cart itself. They looked remarkably like Negroes, and he presumed they were Papuans; more important, the cart behind the woman was laden with coconuts, and now he could see that the land beyond the track had been cleared and apparently replanted, for he could see nothing but coconut trees before him. He had certainly reached a copra plantation, and according to Schooten, there was only one in this vicinity.
Clive waited until the cart was out of sight, then he followed it, staying on the bush side of the track. This continued for another mile, then turned away to the south; now there were coconut trees on either side, and in the distance he could see smoke rising. He sat down to have a think, decided against going any further right then: if he felt sure he could trust the van Gelderens, he didn’t know he could trust all of their employees. But Schooten had told him there would be a siesta. He ate some chocolate, drank some water, looked alternately at his watch and the sun, saw more carts pass down the track, laden with coconuts. But these grew progressively fewer, and at two o’clock it was hotter than at any previous time; no cart had passed for an hour. He got up, made his way through the trees on the left hand side of the track, keeping some fifty yards from it. The undergrowth had been cleared, but the trees were planted fairly close together, and provided adequate cover, unless someone was actually looking for him.
He followed the track for another mile, and then saw the village, and the warehouses, and behind them on a shallow hill, the larger house, above which turned the huge wheel of a windcharger. Obviously that had to be his destination, and he could see no sign of life, save for a sleepy dog, who raised his head and gave a brief bark before settling back to sleep again.
He crept forward, moving from tree to tree now. Surrounding the house, which was verandahed on both floors, was a fairly formal garden; there were sufficient bushes to give him some protection there, but beyond them was a lawn, part of which was a fenced tennis court. This stretched right back to the beginning of the trees. He reached the lawn, stood there surveying the house for a while. It was nearly three, and there wasn’t too much time left. Bending double, he skirted the tennis court, then dashed across the open area and crouched in the shelter of one of the bushes. Still there was no sign that anyone had detected his approach.
A moment later he was vaulting over the lower verandah, despite his bulk almost noiselessly on his canvas shoes. Inside the house a small dog barked, but Clive was already up the outside staircase to the first floor, flattening himself against the wall in shadow, and waiting. Someone said something to the dog, brusquely, downstairs; it was a man, and he might have been speaking Dutch — Clive couldn’t be sure. Then he heard Stefanie van Gelderen’s voice, asking a question, in the same language, from quite near at hand. The man replied, and she spoke again. The dog fell silent. But there was movement just beyond the wall against which he was leaning.
He slid along it, and reached an open window; there was no mosquito screen — presumably they weren’t needed at this height, because of the absence of standing water. He ducked, and looked through, swallowed; Stefanie had left her bed and was entering the bathroom — he saw her back as she went in. She was naked, which was understandable in the afternoon heat, but there was no way he could inform her of his presence without entering the room. He toyed with the idea of approaching the man downstairs, but he wasn’t sure it had been Bill — he hadn’t recognised the voice.
He reminded himself that Stefanie, if still a most attractive woman, was almost old enough to be his mother, and climbed through the window. Water was running in the bathroom, fed by a pump somewhere in the house, and this, combined with the creak of the windcharger, hid the sound of his movement. He tiptoed across the floor, and stood by the bathroom door, back to the wall.
‘Stefanie,’ he whispered.
The water stopped running, and so did the pump.
‘I am sorry to appear like this,’ Clive said in English, ‘but I need your help.’
‘Who is that?’ she asked, also quietly. Her voice was calm.
‘Lieutenant Clive McGann, Royal Navy.’
She stepped through the doorway to look at him; to his relief, she had wrapped herself in a towel, which at least concealed her from nipple to buttock; she had very good legs. ‘Clive?’ she asked, and looked left to right, as if expecting to see a platoon of marines behind him. ‘I don’t understand. Oh, Clive … ‘ she came closer. ‘Have you invaded?’
‘I’m afraid not. Steffi … where’s Bill?’
Her shoulders sagged. ‘They took him away. Two weeks ago. They came to inspect the plantation, and he took offence at something that was said, and raised his fist to a Japanese officer. One of them was quite nice, said the charge was
just a formality … but he hasn’t come back.’
‘Two weeks? Damnation.’
‘But you … ‘ She took in his absence of uniform, the stubble on his chin. ‘You have been sunk? We thought you were dead, lost with Exeter.’
‘I’m a great survivor,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry about Bill, Steffie.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I must get dressed.’ As if she had only just realised that they were in a compromising position.
‘I’ll go outside.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Someone might see you. If you could turn your back … ‘
He faced the wall, heard rustling behind him. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘If the Japanese find you … ‘
‘I came to do a job. Listen.’ He told her why he had been sent. By the time he was finished she was wearing slacks and a loose shirt, and sandals, and was brushing her hair, which she wore short. ‘But I imagine, with Bill gone, I had better signal the sub to pick me up tonight.’
‘You can turn round now,’ she told him, and he did so. ‘Will what you are doing really shorten the war?’ she asked.
‘Well … if you believe that we are going to win it, yes.’
‘Then why do you suppose I will not help you?’
‘The risk is very great. If you were to be found, aiding an Allied spy … ‘
‘It would be the same risk, if Bill were here. We would both be considered guilty, by the kempei-tai. But as he is not here … ‘ She gazed at him. ‘I will help you to establish your station. I have sufficient trustworthy people here. They will come down tomorrow. I know the very headland for you.’
He held her shoulders. ‘The risk is very great,’ he said again. She shrugged. ‘They have taken my Bill. I wish to fight them. Any way I can. If I, we, die, it is in a good cause.’
*
She entertained him to dinner, the two of them, by candlelight, as the winds had been light recently and the batteries were low, nor of course could they be replaced. They were served by a grave Papuan butler, who she could apparently trust. She felt she could trust almost all her people, who did not like the Japanese, although they had been offered independence and self government within the Great East Asia Prosperity Sphere, to be sure.
She wore a good frock, for the first time in a month, she told him, and they smiled at each other, and he told her of his escape from Exeter and the hazardous voyage to Australia on the US destroyer, having to repel air attacks almost the whole journey. In turn she told him of the Japanese occupation of Java, which had apparently been accompanied by few of the excesses reported from Hong Kong. ‘We were all so afraid,’ she confessed. ‘The women, anyway. But they were really quite polite. Then they sent us back here. Produce copra, they commanded. So we did. But then … ‘ some of the animation left her face. ‘They took Bill away, a fortnight ago. They said they were taking him to Manokwari, for questioning. I was frightened, but I expected him back in a couple of days. Now … I think he must be dead.’
Clive rested his hand on top of hers. ‘You thought I was dead, and here I am. Bill will turn up.’
She smiled at him, almost shyly. ‘I keep telling myself that, Clive. But I am so glad that you have survived, at the least.’ He slept in the spare room, in as soft a bed as he had ever known, aware of the gallant woman only a wall away. He could not help but remember his first glimpse of her as she had entered the bathroom. He could not recall ever having actually seen a naked lady before, as opposed to the odd whore or cabaret artiste, and was more than ever aware of how like his stepmother she was. Which made him thoroughly ashamed of himself, but did not prevent him having an erotic dream about her.
By dawn next morning Stefanie had organised a group of her most reliable men, all prepared to swear eternal secrecy, who accompanied him, and her, to the beach to find his gear, and transport it up the hills to the promontory overlooking the sea.
‘It is true,’ she said, ‘that most of the shipping for Rabaul comes along the north coast of New Guinea. You will be very useful here.’ She looked around the rough hut her people had constructed for him, well hidden in the bush at the top of the cliff, the cot, the simple table and chairs, all on the outer side of the cliff and invisible from the land behind. They also supplied him with fresh food. ‘You will be comfortable here,’ she said. ‘And safe. I will return in three days’ time, with more food, and what news I have. If I do not come in three days, or send a message, do not fear; it will be simply because there are Japanese about. I will come eventually.’
‘And if you do not come, eventually?’
She smiled, and gave one of her characteristic shrugs. ‘If I do not come, or send a message, for a week, then I have been taken.’
‘I should hate that to happen,’ he said.
They gazed at each other.
‘It will not, God willing,’ she said.
He held her hand. ‘You are a very brave woman, Steffi,’ he said.
‘And you are a very brave man, Clive,’ she replied. ‘And we must remember that, however, hideous, this is a very brave enemy we fight. We must prove to them that we are the braver, then we will win.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘We will do that.’
Then she was gone, and he was alone, looking back down the hill, and then out to sea. My God, he thought, I have fallen in love with another man’s wife. And a woman at least fifteen years older than myself. And I was criticising young Walt.
He slept heavily, and next morning gazed somewhat drowsily through his binoculars at the ocean. Lazenby would be on his way back by now, his task completed, and no recall signal having been sent from the shore. He was here, and here he would stay. He had never felt so happy in his life.
Then he looked out to sea again, and saw the unmistakable silhouette of two fleet carriers, with their escort of cruisers and destroyers. For a moment he thought his heart had stopped. That could only be the task force intended for the capture of Port Moresby, the kick off point for the invasion of Australia. Thus this was what he had been sent here to find, and he had arrived in the nick of time. He gazed at the radio. Every time he used it, he was endangering himself, and his support. But he had been sent here to take that risk. Without being told what his support would involve. A lovely, lonely, woman.
But one who was fighting on the same side as himself, who would never forgive him for failing her in this moment. He picked up the code book, coded his message, then unlocked the morse key and began to tap.
*
‘That is one hell of a front,’ Lieutenant Crossby remarked.
Tempest lay on the surface at the lower end of the Solomon Sea, recharging her batteries. The night was utterly dark, because of the huge bank of cloud which was slowly drifting in from the north east, but the sea remained calm, and empty.
‘It’ll be gone by morning,’ Hogan asserted. ‘The monsoon ain’t due for another coupla months.’
‘It comes early, from time to time,’ Crossby pointed out.
All four officers were on the conning tower, enjoying the cool of the evening, sweeping the horizon and the sky with their binoculars, although there was little chance of them being spotted by any plane, as the cloud seemed to get lower with every minute.
‘Well, there’s sure gonna be some wind,’ Commander Larter said. ‘You guys are gonna be happy to be fifty feet down, tomorrow.’
‘Urgent message for all submarines, sir,’ said the radio telegrapher, appearing at the top of the ladder.
Larter took the piece of paper and slid down the ladder in turn. Walt went with him, as did Crossby; Hogan was officer of the watch. They crowded into the captain’s cabin — they were all the very best of friends now — while Larter took down the secret code book. The message had already been decoded once, by the telegrapher, but it still remained incomprehensible to anyone lacking the book in the sole possession of the ship’s captain. It read: HWLHW B7HWD HWZ6H WVHWR 5RRBB JQFNM AA.
Larter opened the book. Both Walt and Crossby knew that HW stood for submarine
and the third letter for the individual ships; Tempest was HWV. They also knew that the numbers were sea areas as designated on their charts, and that therefore the six submarines on patrol were being despatched to specific areas. ‘Five,’ Larter said, running his finger down the page. ‘They want us between Woodlark and Bougainville, because RR … enemy task force reported making for Solomon Sea. Aha … BB, two aircraft carriers. Holy shit! JQ, heavily escorted. FNM, keep under surveillance, but do not commit attack until enemy dispersed, AA … ‘ he didn’t have to look that one up. ‘Or unless ordered to do so.’ He closed the book. ‘Looks like they’re making for Port Moresby, all right.’
‘I don’t get this business about not attacking the bastards,’ Crossby growled. ‘Who’s gonna stop them if we don’t?’
‘They must have some ideas,’ Larter said. ‘Time of that message, Wrathall.’
‘Message timed 1600, Tuesday, 5 May, sir,’ the telegrapher replied.
Larter looked at his watch. ‘And it’s 1915 now. Let’s get this thing moving.’
They went on the surface, at full speed, into the night. The sky grew if anything blacker, and before dawn they were smothered in a rain squall which had waves breaking across the deck and water dribbling down the ladder from the conning tower into the control room.
‘So the monsoon don’t come for another shitting two months,’ Crossby remarked. ‘I’m gonna be seasick. That’s why I volunteered for this fucking service, because I get seasick.’
But the sky was lightening through the gloom and Larter took Tempest down to periscope depths. There was still a great deal of movement, however, and having ascertained there was nothing in the vicinity he went down further yet, to seventy feet, where the ocean was still.
They breakfasted, then he took her up again. They were now about two hundred nautical miles south west of Bougainville, and the squall had passed over. The seas were much calmer,
The Passion and the Glory Page 11
