Fear Drive My Feet (12 page)

As there was no house-kiap I decided to sleep in the church. It was at the edge of
the clearing, so we would have some hope of escaping into the bush if we were attacked.
Buso and Buka put up my bed-sail on the dais at one end of the building, and, feeling
rather like a sacrificial lamb on the altar, I lay down there to write up my patrol
diary. It was still very early, so I spent the rest of the afternoon writing letters
home to Australia. It seemed an odd thing to do in this place: I felt that I might
as well have been writing to people on the moon. How any letter would be sent I did
not know, but I wanted it to be ready in case a runner should be sent back to Bob's.

Late in the afternoon the whole church building suddenly began to creak and rock,
and I could see the beams of the roof heaving and straining against the ridgepole.
I sprang off the bed in fear, not realizing for a moment that it was only an earth-tremor
– almost a daily occurrence, though this was an unusually violent one. When it had
stopped, after about two minutes, and I had calmed down, I wished it had been the
volcanoes at Rabaul erupting – we'd have been saved the trouble of clearing out the
Japanese.

As darkness drew on I ate my solitary meal. The cold and damp crept into the church,
and the whole world seemed to shrink to the dim sphere illumined by my small hurricane-lamp.
There was no sound from the kanakas, no sign of cooking-fires. I shivered, checked
over my pistol, and crawled miserably into bed.

Kasenobe looked more cheerful in the morning. Bright sunlight warmed the sparkling
air, and not a cloud spoilt the clear sky. But the houses were the same grey ramshackles,
and the kanakas as sullen as ever. Naturally, in such a place, latrines were unheard
of, so I retired to the edge of the bush. While still squatting, I was knocked flying
by half a dozen ravenous village pigs, squealing and fighting for the excrement
that forms a large part of their diet.

Nine surly Kasenobe boys shouldered our cargo, but they were so unwilling to come
that I decided Buso, Buka, and I should watch three of them each, in case they tried
the favourite trick of throwing down the cargo in some difficult spot and vanishing
into the thick forest. We hoped to be in Samandzing – the village where Buso had left
Jock a couple of days before – by nightfall, but I began to doubt our chances when
I saw the track. It was both rough and steep, and so badly eroded by rushing water
that on the hillside immediately above Kasenobe we found ourselves walking in a ditch
three or four feet deep. The map showed that we had to cross two high mountains,
and Buso confirmed this. Though they were very steep and difficult, he said, we ought
to make Samandzing before dark.

Eleven o'clock found us regaining our breath on top of the first mountain. The carriers
seemed to have settled down, and happily accepted tobacco and newspaper to roll smokes.
Many aeroplanes passed overhead as we rested, but we could not identify them because
of the thick trees that stretched above us. However, within a few minutes the boom
of anti-aircraft fire and the heavy rolling thunder of exploding bombs told us that
our planes were making a strike on Lae. The noise of the explosions was a healthy
reminder that, however isolated it might seem, this country could easily be reached
by the Japs from their base at Lae in about three days' walk.

An hour or so from the top of the mountain brought us to a stream which the natives
called Dimini. On the far side of the valley was a ruined village of the same name,
whose inhabitants had moved to Kasenobe. We sat down for another rest on a cliff above
the stream, where a cleared space enabled me to get a good view of the surrounding
country. Looking downstream through the field-glasses I
could see in the distance
a thatched building which seemed somehow familiar. The more I looked, the more it
puzzled me, but I could not identify it. I passed the glasses to Buso, who instantly
recognized it as the house-kiap at Karangandoang in which I had slept the night
before last. The Karangandoang people had indeed been fooling us when they said that
to reach Samandzing it was necessary to pass through Kasenobe. Down this valley Karangandoang
was not more than five miles away, and I felt sure that there would be a track, even
if only a rough one. I made a mental black mark against the people who had caused
us to lose a whole day through unnecessary travelling. We started off again to climb
the second mountain. It was not as high as the first one which I had estimated as
being about nine thousand feet, but the track was much rougher. In one place a landslide
had carried away a section of it, and we had to scramble round the bare rocky hillside
holding on to roots and trees as we went. Every now and then we had to stop to scrape
leeches off our legs.

By two o'clock we were trotting down a steep slope into Bungalamba village, where
we boiled the billy. Native fashion, I laid a couple of ears of corn in their leaves
on the fire for lunch. As I ate I studied the map, finding out where Bungalamba fitted
into the general picture. This village was of considerable strategic importance to
us, I felt, for it was on a river along whose valley a path led direct to Lae. From
where I sat I could see down the river to Mililuga village, which was only two days'
walk from Lae. If the Japanese decided to come looking for people like Jock McLeod,
this seemed a likely route for them to take.

Bungalamba was important for another reason: it was the last inhabited point on the
southern end of one of the few known crossings over the Saruwaged mountains to the
north coast. Jock was well aware of its dual importance, and in a tiny dependent
hamlet of the main Bun
galamba village, perched high on the far side of the valley,
a police-boy was stationed. His job was to watch for any signs of a Japanese move
up from Mililuga which would cut us off, and to listen to the gossip of the local
natives, reporting to Jock any news he picked up.

As we passed the hamlet, which consisted of three or four miserable grass houses,
this police-boy was waiting by the track. He saluted gravely. I saw that he was a
small middle-aged man, with the hair receding from his wrinkled brown forehead and
turning grey on his temples. His name was Watute, he said, and he came from Pema,
at the mouth of the Waria River. He had been in the police force nearly twenty years,
and it was not long before I saw why Jock had picked him for this job: he heard everything
that was said, shrewdly separated wheat from chaff, the idle chatter from real news,
and built-up a complete and accurate picture of the situation, often from the flimsiest
of clues, in a manner which would have done credit to Sherlock Holmes.

Leaving this elderly native detective at his post, we hurried along the track through
the thickening fog. Luxuriant green vegetation crowded upon us from either side,
cold and dripping with moisture. The tops of the trees faded to invisibility behind
swirling grey wisps of cloud. Sometimes, on downhill stretches, we broke into a jogtrot,
and I think something of my own excitement at the prospect of meeting Jock spread
to Buka and Buso, for I heard them urging the carriers to go faster and faster.

When we reached Samandzing the fog was so thick that twilight seemed to be approaching,
though it was only about half past four. I could not see the more distant houses,
but the village seemed a large one, with well-built grass houses laid out in neat
rows. There were a few men strolling about, and I called the nearest one over and
asked
him which house Jock was using. He stared at me for a few seconds, blank and
dumb, then shook his head and slunk away. The other people, too, seemed to be avoiding
us, and I was glad when Buso, who had been walking at the tail of the line, came
up. He would know where Jock had set up house.

‘Master Jock 'e sleep long house-lotu,' he answered promptly to my question, and
together we made our way quickly to the big church house which dominated the village.
Inside it was gloomy, but there was enough light to see that the building was deserted. There
was no sign of Jock's patrol gear. I sent Buso to find the luluai, while Buka and
I kept a sharp watch about us, rather disturbed by Jock's unexpected absence.

Buso returned in a few minutes with a reluctant luluai in tow. As soon as the luluai
appeared outside the church I knew from his surly face that he would be small help
to us.

‘Master 'e go where?' I asked.

‘ 'Em 'e go long Bilimang, lik-lik place close to.'

He was telling me that Jock had moved to the small nearby village of Bilimang. Further
inquiries established that it was in the next valley, a couple of hours' walk away.
The luluai obviously wanted us to go, for he kept assuring us that we could reach
Bilimang shortly after nightfall if we hurried. Come what may, he was determined
that we should not sleep in his village of Samandzing.

But I felt too tired to go any farther that night, though I wanted badly to see Jock.
I knew he never spent many days in the one place, so it seemed reasonable to suppose
that the luluai was telling the truth. To make sure Jock did not leave Bilimang before
I arrived, I scribbled a note to say I was following, and asked the luluai to send
a lad at once to Jock with the message.

I was a bit dejected, for I had come from Kasenobe at great speed, buoyed up by the
prospect of Jock's company that night; now I felt rather let down at the thought
of spending another night alone, not knowing what had happened to Ian Downs and wondering
whether the Japanese were even then hunting us.

I could see that Samandzing was under strong mission influence, for the churches
and schoolhouses were almost as numerous as the dwellings. The people were unfriendly,
and when I asked the luluai to sell us sufficient food for a meal he replied with
a smirk that it was Sunday and that his people could not possibly break the Sabbath
by digging food. His response had me floored for a moment – until, through the mist,
I caught sight of a number of women toiling up the hill from the gardens, laden with
bilums of food and bundles of firewood. Apparently the Sabbath Day's rest from labour
did not apply to women! I hinted gently that if he could not supply me with a few
vegetables in return for payment it might become necessary, however undesirable,
for the police to shoot and eat one of his pigs – without payment. The threat was
sufficient: after taking one uneasy glance at the gusto with which Buso and Buka
unslung their rifles and looked about for a pig, the old scoundrel shouted to the
people in ‘talk-place'. Within minutes plenty of food was laid out at our feet. There
was no house-kiap, so I had a cooking-fire lit on the earth floor of the church,
and slept as I had at Kasenobe, perched up on the dais.

By ten o'clock next morning I had put most of the zig-zag track from Samandzing behind
me and was clambering down the last hill to Bilimang village – a hill so steep that
we should have had parachutes and jumped.

Jock was lounging against the side of a hut waiting for me. He was a big tough-looking
man. Above his ruddy face his dark hair was close-cropped, almost shaven.
His deep
chest and broad shoulders were scarcely covered by his too-small shirt, and his massive
legs, bare below the shorts, were disfigured by ugly running sores. These were tropical
ulcers, which start from the smallest scratch and need months of persistent treatment
if they are ever to be cured. On his feet was a pair of dirty old sandshoes.

He sauntered forward to meet me, hand extended.

‘I got your note,' he said with a grin. ‘I don't know how the hell you made it. They
must have gone completely nuts to send you out here alone! Anyhow, I'm glad to see
you. Come inside and have a cup of tea.'

We bent double and squeezed through the doorway of the tiny native hut. It was almost
dark inside, and we could barely stand upright without banging our heads against
the smoke-blackened roof. Still, it was the only spare house, and much warmer than
camping out.

Over the tea Jock continued to grumble about the stupidity of headquarters.

‘I don't think the silly bastards have woken up about the war!' he fumed. ‘It was
bloody well criminal to send you through that country by yourself! In this letter
you brought, I'm ordered to instruct you in routine patrol work. Christ Almighty!
Do they think I'm just sitting happily here on my arse, seeing the kanakas keep their
villages tidy? Hasn't anybody told them about the Japanese yet?'

He gulped the scalding tea, and tossed the dregs out the door.

‘Did they give you a radio set?' he asked at length.

I shook my head. ‘I mentioned it, but they just laughed. I thought you must have
one.'

‘Hell! Here we are, just behind the Nips' main base, and they won't give us a radio!
If we find out some red-hot news we have to send it by runner, five days to the nearest
radio at Bob's. The intelligence is stale when it arrives! And what about the risk
the poor bloody police-
boy runs, going up and down the Erap! But a radio? Hell, no!
Those bludgers in Wau and Port Moresby might find it too hard to get the Randwick
starting-prices if they gave away too many radios!'

‘There's certainly not much point in staying here without one. Let's hope Les Williams
can get his set going.'

Jock grunted. ‘It'll help, but we should all have one. We might get scattered from
one end of the Huon Peninsula to the other. One set wouldn't be much use then.'

He sat looking moodily out the door. Rain was falling now, and cold gusts of wind
rushed into the dark little hut.

‘How about food?' he asked more hopefully. ‘Surely to God they realized I was just
about out of kai-kai?'

I shook my head. ‘No. I've only got about a week's food for one man.'