Fear Drive My Feet (9 page)

By midday we had reached a small hamlet called Badibo, where we halted to boil the
billy. The local natives gave us a pineapple, which, with the tea, comprised our
lunch. We bought some fine bananas, too, and the natives assured us that they had
plenty of food.

‘We are getting near the promised land now,' said Les. ‘Just over this hill is Gain,
the first village of the Wain country. The people there can grow almost any fruit
or vegetable.'

It took an hour and a half to reach the top of the next ‘hill'. The track, wide enough
only for single file, climbed through thick forest all the way. The trees had been
cleared slightly at the summit, and it was possible to look across the plain we had
left behind, to the Markham. At the distant edge of the plain the great stream gleamed
dully in the afternoon sun. On the south bank, where the hills came close to the
water's edge, was the kunai spur of Kirkland's outlined against the dark background
of the jungle. Through the binoculars we thought we could see a faint plume of smoke
above the place where we knew the camp to be.

‘Well,' I said, ‘we're a long way from home now, if anything happens.'

We began the short descent of the other side of the hill to Gain, thinking enviously
of Tom Lega and his five men at Kirkland's, mosquito-ridden and unhealthy as the
place was.

Apparently the news of our coming had been sent ahead from Bivoro or Munkip, for
the luluai, tultul, and doctor-boy of Gain stepped forward to salute us as we stopped
in front of the house-kiap, and the village had a scrupulously neat look, which was
usually lacking when a surprise call was paid.

The Wain country was to be my home for many months, and I grew to love it all. It
contains many beautiful sights, but I have always had a specially soft spot in my
heart for Gain village, possibly because of the contrast with the hot, flat, mosquito-ridden
Markham. The house-kiap, a little apart from the village, was set in a grassy clearing
on the hillside, whence one looked across the deep valley of the Upper Busu River
towards tiers of blue mountains rising ever higher as they receded into the distance.
The Busu, a considerable stream even here, flowed into the
Huon Gulf not many miles
from Lae as a large muddy river. The hills, dotted here and there with gardens, were
every conceivable shade of blue. Drifting smoke from some of the gardens indicated
that the owners were clearing new ground. As Les had said, the natives grew abundant
and varied crops in the rich red-brown soil – we were to see that this country was
as productive as it was beautiful. The luluai shouted to the women that we wished
to buy food for the police and some fruit and vegetables for ourselves. The food
had obviously been gathered in anticipation of our visit, for within a few minutes
half a dozen chattering grass-skirted women carrying large bilums, or string bags,
walked across the clearing towards the house-kiap. They carried their bilums by putting
them over their backs and suspending them by a string that passed across their foreheads.
If the strain became too great the women would walk with hands clasped behind their
heads to relieve the backward drag. In this fashion, loads that would almost have
broken a mule's heart were carried. Often you could hardly see the woman who carried
the load, which consisted of perhaps forty pounds of sweet potatoes, the next day's
stack of firewood, a cooking-pot or two, and sometimes a child to top the pile. But
no doubt they were used to it, and they seemed remarkably cheerful as they spread
their wares on the grass, each standing by her pile waiting for me to buy.

The tultul translated my question into ‘talk-place', or the local dialect, for the
women did not speak pidgin. ‘Do you want salt, money, newspaper, or tobacco?' I asked.

Without exception each chose a handful or so of coarse salt, and carefully parcelled
it up in a leaf tied with vine. They were obviously delighted with their bargain,
which astonished me when I looked at what I had received in exchange. There were
piles of cabbages, sweet
potatoes, English potatoes, tomatoes, papaws, bananas, sweet
corn, and pineapples. The German Lutheran Mission, which had been established in
the area for many years, was mainly responsible for the presence of these imported
plants, and one could buy fine-quality English potatoes almost anywhere in the mountains
of the Huon Peninsula, though they did not thrive in the low-lying coastal areas.

With a confidential wink, the luluai sidled up and handed me a small bundle tied
up in a filthy rag. I opened it gingerly, to find six eggs. The old man's grin spread
from one black ear to the other as I called out delightedly to Les, ‘Hey, look at
this! Eggs for breakfast!'

‘Good-oh – they'll go well! Buy 'em and don't break 'em!' Les said enthusiastically.

I was about to give the old boy a shilling and a smoke when Kari stepped quickly
between us. ‘Master, you no can buyim! Me tryim first time suppose 'em 'e stink!'

Kari had been told to look after me, and he was taking it seriously. He called for
a dish of water, but since none of the eggs floated we reckoned they were good, and
handed over the payment. We also asked the luluai and tultul to come up to the house
later in the evening, so that we could have a chat.

‘Wash-wash' was the next item of camp routine. Two buckets of water were heated over
the fire in the ‘house-cook' – a small shelter attached to the house-kiap – and a
couple of banana-leaves were spread on the ground for a bath-mat. With a mug we poured
hot water from the bucket over ourselves, lathered up, and rinsed the soap off with
more hot water from the mug. All this was watched by an interested throng of natives
of both sexes and all sizes. It was the only way in which I took a bath in the next
year or so, for to bathe in the icy streams of these mountains was to invite an attack
of malaria.

Though Les had a couple of natives as servants and camp usefuls, we had no cook,
so I prepared dinner myself. The menu comprised fried tinned sausages, cabbage, potato-chips,
and fried tomatoes, and fruit salad, followed by several pints of very strong and
excellent coffee made from coffee-beans grown in Wau – I had taken care to scrounge
a big tin before setting out for the Markham.

Les sighed with delicious anticipation as I put his meal in front of him. ‘By God,
that looks good!' Settling the plate firmly on his knee, he ate ravenously.

Except for the sausages our meal was all of local produce. In this country the only
rations we had to carry were the typically European foods – tea and sugar, tinned
milk and meat, jam, biscuits, and flour. Fresh meat could sometimes be bought from
the natives – they only had to kill a fowl or a pig. And if you had a shotgun you
could sometimes bag a pigeon, which made succulent eating.

Dusk was approaching when we drained the coffeepot and lit our pipes and sat on
the edge of the house, which, like all native dwellings in this district, was built
on piles a few feet above the ground. As we smoked, we watched the shadows darken
in the valleys and the mountains change from blue to deep purple.

Through the glasses we picked out two iron-roofed houses on a distant hillside. These
were the buildings of Boana Mission, the Lutheran headquarters for this area, and
former residence of several German missionaries. Boana had long since been abandoned,
for the missionaries had been either interned or removed to Australia. The buildings
were also damaged, for Japanese strafing planes, under the impression that our forces
were in occupation, had attacked the mission one morning and partially wrecked it.
The question now was whether the Japanese would come and take charge. Boana was a
sort of focal
centre for the Wain, and was only a couple of days' journey from the
enemy base at Lae. It seemed certain that soon the Japanese would venture into the
mountains and establish a post there.

Though we had not received an unfriendly welcome, we were a little worried about
the attitude of the natives towards us. Would they refuse to co-operate when we made
the reasons for our presence known? More than twenty years before the Australian
administration was established in New Guinea, German missionaries were exploring
the Huon Peninsula and making contact with its people. Some of these missionaries
were unfriendly to the administration, and they had not encouraged the natives to
co-operate with any white men except themselves. Because of their greater numbers
and more or less permanent residence in one district, they naturally had a greater
hold on the natives than the transient government officer had. Although all these
European missionaries had gone we feared that their influence would persist, for
we knew that some of the native mission helpers (or ‘black missions') also bore the
government no great love. We felt a greater sense of confidence, however, when we
were told that most of the ‘black missions' had left their posts and returned to
their home villages. Now, perhaps, we would have a chance to influence the natives
to our way of thinking.

It had become quite dark. The evening was very cool, and we pulled on sweaters and
long trousers. I felt contented as I sat and watched the little disc of Les's pipe
glow and fade. A good dinner, clean clothes, a pipe, and a cool, pleasant climate
– what more could one ask at the end of a hard day's walk, I thought, as I compared
this with evenings at Bob's, where one sweated all night and slapped continually
at mosquitoes. Below us in the valley the Busu River thundered as it rushed down
towards Lae. Across the
little clearing came the murmur of conversation and an occasional
roar of laughter from the police-boys. We saw the flicker of their fire and the red
points of their cigarettes. Les and I sighed as we knocked out our pipes to refill
them. In the midst of war, it seemed, one could find peace.

A quiet ‘Me fella come up now' announced the presence of the luluai and tultul.
They had approached so silently on their bare feet out of the darkness that we had
not heard them. They squatted down close by, and we passed them a couple of sticks
of tobacco and some newspaper. While they rolled their long cigarettes we talked,
the tultul translating our remarks from pidgin English to ‘talk-place' for the luluai,
and rendering the old man's comments into pidgin for us.

We chatted generally about the war. They knew the Japs had driven us out of Lae,
and they wanted to know what the situation was in other parts of New Guinea. We told
them of our growing strength – of the planes which would bomb Lae and Salamaua in
ever-increasing numbers, and of the great base being built at Port Moresby. Yes,
they knew Lae was already being bombed more heavily – the explosions could be heard
clearly in Gain as the sound travelled up the valley of the Busu.

‘But what about men?' they said. ‘The talk comes up to us from Lae that there are
more Japanese there than there used to be white men in the whole of New Guinea in
peacetime. There are now only four white men that we know of for certain: you two
here and the two over there' – they waved their hands vaguely over the hills where
they supposed Jock and Ian to be.

We told them of our successes at Milne Bay and Kokoda, and that before very long
we would be in a position to regain Lae. We also impressed on them the necessity
for avoiding any contact with the Japanese, and for
hiding in the bush if any Japs
came into the area. They agreed to do this readily enough, for stories had come up
from the coast about the harsh treatment of the Lae natives by the Japanese.

The conversation drifted to other topics – food and gardens, and the scarcity of
pigs. As they left to return to the village, we told them that we wished to leave
early next day, and asked them to make sure that sufficient carriers were available
by daybreak.

We lit the hurricane-lamp and undressed, filling a last pipe to be smoked in bed
before going to sleep. It was three-blanket country here, and the world seemed a
pleasant place as we stretched out on our bed-sails. The risky journey up the Erap
had been accomplished safely, the local natives seemed well disposed, and we were
happy.

We took a last look across at the house-police, which was now silent. Squatting by
the dying embers of the fire was the sentry posted by Corporal Kari. His black skin
shone in the faint light; when he drew on his cigarette the whites of his eyes gleamed,
and the shape of a fixed bayonet could just be discerned.

‘Well, shut-eye now,' said Les. ‘We must be on the track before sparrow-fart tomorrow.'

I was too nearly asleep to reply.

III

IN THE
morning we drank a cup of tea by the first grey light and were on the road
again. A dozen men would have been enough to carry our gear, but we were surrounded
by a throng of people, all anxious to help. Chattering loudly in their own tongue,
tiny brown-skinned lads seized lamps and buckets and other light articles and fell
into line with the men carrying the heavier loads. Of course, this was not done purely
out of a desire to work: they knew very well that they would share in the distribution
of salt and tobacco at the end of the carry. But there was a good-humoured spirit
about the whole line of carriers which made us confident that even if the enemy's
propaganda had penetrated as far as this, it had failed to stir up feeling against
us.

We descended the track, which wound steep and snake-like, through grass and forest,
to the Busu River. We crossed the river by a rickety bridge of bamboos and began the
climb up the other side. These steep climbs up and down the valleys were the most
difficult feature of
travel in these mountains, where all the streams were so deeply
entrenched. Indeed, in some settlements one could shout to another village and be
heard, though the walk to it involved the best part of half a day's solid climbing.