Fear Drive My Feet (37 page)

I did not move. They continued to call out encouragingly for a quarter of an hour.
Then one of them said
apparently to someone nearby, ‘ 'Em 'e no hearim talk belong
me-fella. I think 'em 'e go finish long bush.'

The Japanese started talking to each other again after that, having given up hope
of capturing me, it seemed, now that the trick had failed.

I stayed in the same place until it was nearly dark. The mosquitoes were swarming
on my head so thickly, and buzzing so loudly, that I thought they would give away
my position. Then I crept out of the mud, wiped the mud off pistol and compass, and
began to break bush, moving on a line south and west, which, as I remembered the
map, should at last bring me to the bank of the Markham, some distance upstream from
Chivasing, more or less opposite the mouth of the Watut River.

In a couple of years packed with bad journeys, that night's travel is the worst I
can remember. Near the village it was essential to move with absolute quietness,
no easy matter when the rows of hooked thorns on the vines caught at me continually
and one hand was always occupied holding the compass. It was no use trying to free
myself from the vines – as fast as one row of barbs was detached another took hold.
It was easier, if more painful, to let them tear straight through the flesh. After
the bush came the pit-pit – cane-grass eight or nine feet high, growing so thickly
as to make a solid wall. It was impossible to part it and walk through it, and I
was forced to push it over by leaning on it, and crawl over the top on all fours.
It had leaves like razor-blades, which hurt terribly on bare legs; mine were soon
dripping with blood from the cuts. Worse, the flattened grass left a trail a blind
man could have followed. Though I had my compass handy the grass blocked all view
of any object to sight on, and there were no stars, for it was a cloudy night. The
two luminous points on the instrument danced and swung before my eyes. Sometimes
I had to pause, close my eyes, and force my nerves to calm
ness before I could see
properly. Every time I tried to march by sense alone, I found myself going wrong.

Hours later, during one of these pauses, I heard the dull swish of swiftly flowing
water. The Markham! I had got there sooner than I expected. It would take every scrap
of my energy to swim it, and I removed my clothes, such as they were, and buckled
on again the belt which carried revolver, compass, and sheath-knife. Then I stumbled
forward, heading for the sound of the water. When I reached it I found it was nothing
but a small creek flowing down to the river. I nearly cried with rage and disappointment,
and decided to go no farther that night, but lay down naked where I was. The mosquitoes
were terrible, setting all over my body in swarms, and their bites nearly closed
both my eyes. Finally, to escape them, I dragged myself into a shallow puddle of
mud at the edge of the stream, and slept there.

Shortly before daylight I moved on, weak and stumbling, my heart jumping in the
frightening way I had noticed in the mountains. The last few miles were easier, for
the pit-pit gave place to kunai, through which one could at least walk upright. At
any moment I expected a volley of shots, for the country was flat, and if, after
sunrise, the Japs had taken the trouble to post a few men in trees, they could not
have failed to see me. I crossed one new track through the grass, which showed many
enemy footprints, and reached the Markham about mid-morning. As I looked across
its swift brown streams I knew that I was too tired to swim it before I had had a
rest, so I crawled into a patch of bush and dozed until about midday. Then I swam
as silently as possible from one island to the next, resting for a short while on
each one. Every time I touched a log or floating piece of rubbish I was terrified
it was a crocodile, and struck out with renewed vigour. I really believe it was this
fear, coupled with the expectation of a
burst of machine-gun fire from the north
bank, that enabled me to make the distance.

On the south bank at last, I lay breathless in a patch of grass. Voices came from
not far away. I eased my pistol out of its holster and peered through the grass.
Two Chivasing natives, with their women, were walking straight towards me, chattering
happily, quite unaware of any alien presence. As soon as they drew level I jumped
from cover, shoving the pistol into the ribs of the nearest one. The men trembled,
but made no sound, and the women moaned faintly. They were too terrified to shout
– apparently they thought I was going to shoot them out of hand.

‘You-fella got canoe? 'Em 'e stop where?'

They nodded, and pointed to a spot on the bank nearby. I made them lead me to it
and ordered them to take me to Kirkland's. They were so terrified that I was afraid
they would faint, but I jabbed them in the ribs with the pistol and forced them to
get aboard.

Although I felt certain in my mind that Les was dead, I did not have positive evidence.
I did not want to ask the Chivasing people directly, so I phrased the question in
a way which did not reveal my ignorance.

‘What are you going to do with the other white man?'

Their reply snuffed out the lingering spark of hope that Les might be alive.

‘We will bury him in the cemetery at Chivasing,' one said in pidgin.

‘We will see that he gets a proper funeral,' added the other man ingratiatingly,
as if that would atone in some way for his people's treacherous share in Les's death.

The rapid muddy stream was sweeping us down towards Kirkland's, and I made the natives
hug the south bank closely, to keep out of the range of Japanese who might be on
the north side. When Kirkland's came in sight
I stood up, waving my arms above my
head and cooeeing, and I was shortly answered by a hail from the low kunai hill behind
the camp. As the canoe nosed in under the foliage to touch at the landing-place,
several Australian soldiers stepped out of the bushes and helped me ashore. Half
carried, half supported, I made my way with them to the wretched little huts, and
sat down in the mosquito-proof room while they brought me tea and some army biscuits.

Nobody said anything much, and I sat there dully, staring at the swamp. I had no
sensation of joy or relief, though I knew in a remote and abstract way that I was
now safe. I had no thoughts, no feelings whatsoever. I felt neither grief on account
of Les nor anger at the Japanese or Chivasings. Nor did I feel any sense of warmth
or companionship towards the soldiers who were now preparing water for me to wash,
and giving me articles from their own scanty clothing to cover my nakedness. I was
too spent, emotionally, to feel or think or care, and I know now that such a state
is the nearest one can come to death – an emptiness of spirit much more deadly than
a grievous wound.

After I had been sitting there for a little while, Kari, Watute, Dinkila, Pato, and
all the other boys limped up to see me. They managed a salute, but I could see they
felt as dispirited and weary as I did. They were cut about and tattered, and caked
with grey Markham mud that cracked and dropped off in little flakes as the skin stretched
beneath it. I shook hands with each one, and they shuffled back to the little hut,
where they were crowded together. Kari and Watute remained for a few moments to talk.
They had stayed across the river looking for me, they said, and when they found my
tracks leading to the river, concluded I would be all right, and floated themselves
down to Kirkland's on logs. Arong, the boy who had entered the
village with Les and
me, had been captured by the Japs and taken to Lae, Watute added.

Next day a horse was sent down for me, and I rode to Wampit. Here I had a proper
hot shower, and willing helpers gathered round with needles and dug dozens of thorns
out of my limbs and body. There was no skin at all on my legs, and my feet were so
enormously swollen that I thought boots would never fit on them again. Months later,
I was still digging out odd thorns that had been overlooked at Wampit.

The following morning I set out on horseback for Bulolo township, which had replaced
Wau as the military headquarters of the area. The police and other natives followed
on foot, and during the several days which for me were occupied in writing the long
report of the patrol they straggled in by twos and threes, still very weary.

After a few days I went to the store to get new clothes. I was wearing a woollen
shirt, a pair of ragged green shorts, and some old sandshoes, but no hat or socks.
All of these had been given me either at Kirklands or Wampit.

‘Where's your paybook and your other papers?' demanded the quartermaster.

I explained the fate of my clothes and papers and other possessions.

‘Good God, man, that's no excuse!' he snapped. ‘Don't you realize it's a crime in
the Army to lose your paybook? You can't be issued with any equipment here without
a paybook.'

I didn't argue, but let the district officer arrange a new issue of clothing for
me. But I started to wonder all over again if wars were really worth the trouble.

IX

EXCEPT FOR
sitting up to write the patrol report, I spent most of the time for the
next week lying on my bed-sail smoking, reading, and dozing. The police and other
boys were doing much the same, and I hardly saw them.

At the end of that time, however, my feet had shrunk to their normal size and I could
get them into boots again. I wandered about, gossiping to anyone who had time to
talk, and performing various duties in the district office.

Jock McLeod came in one day. He was in charge of the lines of native carriers supplying
our troops as they advanced on Salamaua, through the Buang mountains, and was as
usual engaged in a bitter feud with the Army.

‘The rotten bludgers!' he exploded with characteristic vigour. ‘I can't even be
bothered talking to them any longer! I've got these coons slaving their guts out;
they aren't properly housed, and they're on about half rations, and I've been telling
the Army so for weeks. Now the boys
are all going down sick and the Army is demanding
explanations. When I tried to tell them the boys are only human, some bloody jumped-up
snotty-nosed staff officer told me I had the wrong slant on the job. “You must regard
the natives merely as so many units of energy, Mr McLeod,” he said, “like motorcars”
'

Jock's fulminations and Vertigan's more temperate representations had some effect,
and arrangements were made for better rations for the carrier lines.

He was interested to hear of the situation north of the Markham, and had the last
laugh when he remarked with a quiet grin, ‘I said you'd find the Nips all round Boana
by the time you got back there.'

After a couple of weeks, as soon as their raw feet and aching limbs were better,
the boys wanted to return to the bush. Kari and Watute approached me as a delegation:

‘Master, me-fella man belong work bush. Me-fella no like sit down long arse long
station.'

I confessed to them that I was finding station life pretty tedious too – a dull routine
of sending signals inspecting labourers, and writing letters and lists. I promised
I would do my best to get us back to more congenial work in the bush.

In July luck changed for me: I was posted back to the bush. But I learnt with bitter
astonishment that I was to have a new squad of police. They were smart recruits from
the depot, faultless on parade, but utterly inexperienced in bush work. Mighty Kari,
shrewd Watute, crackshot Nabura, and all the other policemen were posted elsewhere.
We gathered in my hut for the last time, while Dinkila packed my gear. I gave Kari
an old pipe, Watute a sheath-knife, and the others any odds and ends I could scrounge.

It was a sad parting when we shook hands. I never saw any of them again, though I
heard that Kari was made a
sergeant-major, the highest rank to which he could rise.
But they are never far from my memory, and I hope that, back in their grass-thatched
villages, they sometimes think of me.

I still had Dinkila and Pato, and all the other non-police natives who had been with
me on the Huon Peninsula patrol, and we set out in July for the Lower Watut River
– to Tsilitsili. Our errand was as follows:

The Allies were now firmly on the offensive, and the Americans wished to establish
a forward fighter aerodrome in the Lower Watut area. This would enable our fighters
to range as far as Wewak, which was not possible from the existing dromes in Port
Moresby. It would also serve as a partial jumping-off place for our impending assault
on Lae. A few Americans and Australians had already moved to Tsilitsili and begun
work on a landing-strip.

Although our patrols, some of them native troops of the Papuan Infantry Battalion,
were watching the Markham from the mouth of the Watut down to Kirkland's, there
was a twenty-mile stretch of the Markham upstream from the Watut mouth which was
quite unguarded. In this sector the enemy could easily cross the river and attack
the aerodrome construction at Tsilitsili. Kaiapit lay just across the river from
this stretch, and it was known that the Japanese were there in force, but since Harry
Lumb's death information from the area had been irregular and uncertain.

Our job was to watch this twenty-mile stretch of river, find out all we could of
enemy activity on the other side, and warn Tsilitsili if the Japs made any attempt
to cross and attack the drome.

The four-day journey down the Watut was uneventful. One night we slept in a big
comfortable house of native material overlooking the lovely valley. Fully equipped,
the house looked as if it were awaiting the return of its owner,
which would never
happen, for the house was Harry Lumb's. It was from here that he had worked his gold
mine in peacetime.