Territory (2 page)

Lieutenant Akira Nakajima was far too intent upon the information and instruction he was receiving to take any notice whatsoever of his young copilot. The US destroyer
Peary
had returned to the port of Darwin for refuelling within the past hour. It was a stroke of luck. Her presence had not been anticipated when the attack plans had first been laid out. And she was to be Nakajima's prime target. After the initial high-level assault upon Darwin, the dive-bombers would take control of the attack. And Akira Nakajima determined that it would be he who would eradicate the US destroyer. The whole of Darwin would be under attack and its installations annihilated, that was the plan, but the
Peary
would be the personal jewel in Akira's crown.

 

Having breakfasted, Paul Trewinnard lounged about in the luxury of the Hotel Darwin foyer observing, through the potted palms, the comings and goings of the few remaining guests and staff. It was one of his favourite pastimes, studying human behaviour. After ten minutes or so, he decided to wander down to the wharf to look at the warships. The US destroyer
Peary
had arrived this morning, the desk clerk had told him.

‘Huge thing,' the clerk had said, ‘quite terrifying really.'

She'd be worth a look at, Paul thought, donning his Panama hat. He nodded to the uniformed doorman as he stepped out into the glare of the morning.

Aggie Marshall walked down the Esplanade on her way to the post office. The Esplanade formed the harbourside boundary of Darwin's township, sweeping down the coastline and turning in an L-shape north-east at the wharves.

The streets of Darwin were busy, mainly with military personnel. Many of the older buildings along the
Esplanade had been commandeered by the military, and men went about their business. The streets leading off to the left from the Esplanade and into the town centre were busy too. The civilians who had remained in the town were also going about their business.

Foong Lee stepped out of his shop and started down the broad avenue of Cavenagh Street, walking beneath the welcome shade of the endless verandahed shops and crossing the small laneways which dissected the major streets of Chinatown. Just ahead, to his right, was Gordon's Don Hotel on the corner of Bennet Street and beyond that, to his left, was the
yung si
, the massive banyan tree which stood at the far end of Cavenagh Street only half a block from the wharf end of the Esplanade. The
yung si
was a dominant feature of Chinatown, particularly to the children who played amongst its branches. Foong Lee made a habit of turning into Bennet Street just before he got to the
yung si
, then he'd walk up Smith Street and back into Cavenagh to complete his around-the-block stroll. It was a pleasant twenty-minute walk in all, at a leisurely pace.

 

The attack force had crossed the coast of the mainland to the east of Darwin. Upon instruction, they swung round to approach the town from the south-east, with the sun behind them. Far in the distance, and from twenty thousand feet up in the sky, Darwin Harbour looked magnificent. And vulnerable. Ships of every description sat like tiny dots on the vast blue water. Forty-five in number. And tucked away, on its tiny peninsula within the massive harbour, was Darwin itself. Most vulnerable of all. Innocently waiting. Undefended. A lamb to the slaughter, Akira Nakajima thought.

‘Tora!' The command barked through Nakajima's headset. ‘Tora! Tora!'

Akira Nakajima commenced his dive.

 

Paul Trewinnard had strolled down Lover's Walk to the wharves and was studying the ships in the harbour when he heard the warning sirens. He thought it was a military exercise at first. Until he looked up.

Aggie Marshall was outside the Hotel Darwin and just about to cross Herbert Street when she heard the wail of the sirens. An awful sound, it always unnerved her, even when she knew it was only an exercise of some sort. Then she looked up.

Having turned the corner from Bennet into Smith Street, Foong Lee was outside the Bank of New South Wales when the sirens sounded. An air raid, he thought in the instant he heard them. He shaded his eyes and looked up.

The whole of Darwin looked up. It was two minutes before ten o'clock on a Thursday morning and people stood in the street staring up at the sky in disbelief, unable to comprehend what their eyes perceived.

Time stopped as the menacing horde swooped down from the sun. For the hundreds watching from the town, it seemed an eternity. Then, suddenly, the planes were overhead, so many they all but obliterated the sun. The light seemed to dim, the sky no longer seemed blue, and by ten o'clock, Darwin was under massive attack from the Japanese Imperial Air Force.

The
Peary
was hit aft by a dive-bomber. Her bridge ignited and the crew worked valiantly to extinguish the flames. Then again, another direct hit. But she fought on. Upon her captain's orders her guns still fired as she drifted ablaze on the harbour waters.

The
Neptuna
, berthed at Main Jetty, was hit amidships. She burned fiercely. A time bomb, the intense heat threatening at any moment to ignite the heavy ammunition and depth charges she carried.

The
Zealandia
and the
British Motorist
, both at anchor, were hit and sank at their moorings. The harbour was an inferno, erupting in pockets of flame and belching black
smoke and, as shells screamed through the air and explosions showered the shoreline with debris, the township of Darwin too became a blaze of destruction.

Foong Lee ran up Smith Street. His one aim was to get back to his father whom he knew would be in a state of utter terror and confusion. People were screaming in the streets, panic-stricken. He passed C.J. Cashman's store and, halfway up the block, the force of an explosion caused him to stagger. He fell to his knees, hauled himself back up on his feet and looked over his shoulder. Cashman's had been hit. Sheets of galvanised iron had been hurled across the street and smoke billowed from the windows of the gutted building. Two bodies were sprawled on the pavement. Foong Lee ran on.

Paul Trewinnard made no attempt at all to run for cover. What was the point? In his opinion there seemed no specific place in Darwin any safer than another. There had been no preparation for an event such as this, although there damn well should have been, he thought. Where were the Government-built bunkers? Where was the massive defence force which should have been present to drive away the marauders? He was as fearful as the next man, he'd be the first to admit, as he sqatted, covering his head with his arms, water and debris showering about him, but he might as well stay where he was. If he was going to be killed then he'd watch the spectacle first.

And as he watched, Paul's fear was mingled with awe. Out on the harbour, the
Peary
, already twice hit and adrift, her guns still bravely blazing, suddenly destructed. The vessel's magazine exploded and, in the instant before she was engulfed in flames, Paul could swear he saw men flying through the air. Black oil flooded the harbour, black smoke billowed up into the morning air and the once-proud
Peary
, now a massive ball of fire, burned on the water. His own fear now forgotten, Paul thought of the men who, only seconds previously, had been firing those
guns. This was Armageddon, he thought. The annihilation was total.

After the first hideous moments of shock, Aggie Marshall ran for cover. The post office was only a block away, on the bend of the Esplanade, so she headed there. If she was to die then at least she'd be with people she knew. She crossed Bennet Street, the post office was right ahead of her. Then she was thrown backwards by a force so strong it lifted her off her feet. The noise was deafening. Surely her eardrums must have burst, she thought briefly. Then she knew nothing as she hit the pavement and was showered with rubble.

Foong Lee ran down Knuckey Street to the corner of Cavenagh. All about him others were running, screaming, wailing, terrified, and the air was thick with smoke and the sickening smell of cordite. It seemed to him that the whole of Darwin was exploding. He looked up Cavenagh Street. His shop was a block away. He stepped from the kerb. But he had barely crossed Knuckey Street before the force of another explosion threw him to the ground.

When the smoke had cleared and he'd struggled to his feet, there was no shop a block away. There was no block at all. Just wasteland. Amidst the pall of smoke and dust, there was no delineation of streets and houses. There was nothing but rubble. Half of Chinatown had been obliterated.

Foong Lee walked towards where his shop and his home had been. As he walked, he ignored the mayhem which surrounded him. He ignored the fire which crackled about his feet, licking at the dried timbers which had once been verandah posts. He walked slowly, there was no point in running. He'd check the wreckage, he thought numbly, then he must help the others, those who lay maimed and bleeding amongst the ruins. He prayed that Foong Shek Mei had not awakened from his drug-induced state, he prayed that the gods had been kind and that his father had
known no terror. As he stepped over the threshold into the smouldering remains of the small room which had once served as his office he saw the valuables safe. It sat upright, still locked and unscarred, apparently impervious to the Japanese bombs. With a numb sense of irony, Foong Lee walked past the safe and commenced the search for his father's remains amongst the destruction.

At 10.40 a.m. the all-clear sounded. The Japanese attack force had departed as quickly as it had appeared, and Darwin lay devastated in its wake.

Fire engines and ambulances screamed through the streets. Rescue work started immediately; there were those trapped beneath rubble, the wounded and the dying.

Foong Lee went to the aid of a child. A little boy. He was badly burned and, as Foong Lee gently lifted him, the child's skin came away in his hands. Mercifully, the boy was dead. Foong Lee was not a man given to the expression of emotion, but he fell to his knees and wept for the human race.

It was an army Landrover, serving as an ambulance, which transported Aggie Marshall to the hospital. She regained consciousness as they lifted her from where she lay in the street and, as she did, she realised that she was not in pain, but she couldn't seem to move. Her body was a dead weight and yet she felt extremely light-headed. A strange combination.

Good heavens, she thought when she saw the firemen fighting the flames which were devouring the post office. It's gone. The post office has gone. She wondered if all of her friends who worked there had gone too, surely nobody could have survived such destruction. She wanted to ask one of the two kind men who were so gently carrying her what had happened to her friends. She raised her head and opened her mouth to say something, but then she noticed the blood. All over the stretcher, all over her clothes. Such a lot of blood. Was it hers? And she seemed to have lost
her left shoe, she noticed as they laid her gently in the back of the Landrover. But then she seemed to have lost most of her left foot as well. She couldn't really tell for the blood.

Whilst emergency rescue work and firefighting continued there was no time to ponder what had happened, or even to mourn the dead. There was so much to do that it seemed the battle was still being fought and, as if to emphasise the point, the time bomb berthed at Main Jetty suddenly exploded.

The
Neptuna
had been burning fiercely for close to an hour and, at 11.15, the heat aboard the 6,000-ton vessel reached such an intensity that the high explosives aboard finally ignited.

Giant jets of flame propelled wreckage high into the sky like an erupting volcano, showering the harbour with smouldering debris. In the town the force of the explosion shattered the windows of those buildings left standing as the whole of Darwin trembled from the impact of the shock waves.

The gigantic black cloud which followed the explosion billowed over the harbour and the township like a huge exclamation mark. Surely it indicated the end to the battle, to the unspeakable events of the morning. But it didn't. Barely thirty minutes later a fresh horror presented itself.

At 11.58, two hours after the initial assault on Darwin, fifty-four unescorted land-based bombers attacked the RAAF base four miles north-east of the town. The attack lasted twenty-five minutes and the base was virtually annihilated. The gateway to the north lay ruined. The Japanese had successfully destroyed all RAAF strength in the north-western area of Australia, known as the Top End. The vast land to the south was now more vulnerable than ever.

1628

From his little writing desk in the corner by the door, young Pieter Grij stole another furtive glance at the woman as he dipped his quilled pen in the inkwell. And, yet again, he quickly averted his gaze to concentrate upon the giant leather-bound ledger before him, lest his father should catch the naked admiration in his eyes. But old Gerrit Grij's attention was focussed upon the locket which he held in his hands. Seated at his showcase table, he lovingly buffed the silver with a fine silk cloth then delicately, reverently, and with a touch of regret as if loath to part with this newborn gem of his creation, he placed it in the black, velvet-lined presentation case.

Another glance from the youth to the woman. Once again his gaze quickly averted lest she herself should turn and perceive his unashamed adoration. Painstakingly, the tip of his tongue protruding from his lips, Pieter concentrated upon his task. ‘Quantity—one—Silver pendant with diamonds inset …' he wrote, the nib of the pen scratching on the rough paper as he entered the description and the
payment into the ledger, all the while longing to look up and once more feast his eyes on her. For nineteen-year-old Pieter had never seen so beautiful a woman. A woman of breeding, it was obvious. Tall, slender, her face framed by a heart-shaped bonnet, her thick auburn hair captured by the bonnet's lace cowl. Even as Pieter entered the sum in the ledger, he could see, through the shadows of his sandy eyelashes, the aquiline profile, the proud tilt of her chin and the regal bearing of her shoulders as she gazed out of the window. Pieter daren't look up. Any moment she might turn, and those magnificent, ice-blue eyes might scorn him, that fine, arched brow might furrow with disapproval, for he was far beneath her. He, the lowly youngest son of a diamond merchant, albeit a master craftsman, and she a fine lady. Why, she might read something untoward in his admiration. Something sinful. And Pieter would feel shamed.

But Lucretia van den Mylen did not turn from the window. She stood in the second-floor showroom of the merchant's house and continued to stare out over the Keizersgracht. What an elegant city Amsterdam was becoming, she thought. Even now, before the final stages of the Prinsengracht construction had been completed.

The three major canals, the Herengracht, the Keizersgracht and the Prinsengracht, were an engineering feat of which all Amsterdammers were justifiably proud. They started at the harbour, where the walled city of Amsterdam sat snuggled within the immense womb of the Zuider Zee, and they arced around the township to meet the Amstel River. Tall slender houses, like the diamond merchant's, had already sprung up beside the canals, wealthy merchants and traders willing to sacrifice breadth of frontage for fashionable canal views.

It was an afternoon in late September, and Lucretia watched a young couple, huddled together to ward off the autumn chill, as they walked along the cobbled street beside
the canal. Now and then they disappeared amongst the row of elm and linden trees which lined the street, but still she watched until they were out of sight around the bend. They made her think of Boudewijn and how she missed him, and how she longed to feel his arms around her. In one month's time she would be on her way to him, she thought. Just one month. The voyage would take a whole further nine and God alone knew what perils lay ahead on the high seas, but each day would bring her closer to him, and to Lucretia that was all that mattered. Of course she would miss Amsterdam, she thought as she watched a small barge being punted along the canal, but …

‘Here she is, Vrouwe van den Mylen.' The merchant's voice startled her, lost in reverie as she had been. ‘A thing of great beauty.' Gerrit Grij checked himself. Although he always referred to his favourite pieces in the female gender, lavish comments upon his own work were uncharacteristic of him, he did not wish to sound proud. ‘I hope she meets with your requirements,' he added.

He eased himself carefully from his chair, stifling a grimace at the pain of the arthritis in his hip, and held the open presentation case at arm's length. Ceremoniously he lowered it to the table in front of him. Lucretia crossed to the table and looked down at the locket.

A tiny but audible gasp of astonishment caught in her throat and her lips parted in a smile of sheer delight; the jeweller was right, the locket was a thing of great beauty. Circular, no more than an inch in diameter, it was made from solid silver, and engraved on its face was a rocky mountain. Not an etching, not an outline, but the very texture of the rock appeared to be carved into the heavy metal, as if it had been eroded by the elements themselves. And behind the mountain's peak rose a mighty sun, a cluster of diamonds, perfectly cut and set into the silver to reflect the maximum light from every direction. The two were entwined: the sun caressed the mountain, and the
mountain basked in the sun, its peak of a lighter hue than its base, as if it were reaching for the sun's embrace.

‘It is glorious,' Lucretia breathed softly as she lifted the locket from the case, ‘truly glorious.'

She had spoken in depth with the jeweller about the design, and she had trusted in the quality of his work, for Gerrit Grij was far more than a merchant and a jeweller, he was a diamond cutter and an engraver whose craftsmanship was held in the highest esteem.

‘Boudewijn is the sun to me, as I am the earth to him,' she had said.

Gerrit Grij had wondered briefly whether the request bore any astrological inference. As a devout Protestant he sincerely hoped not. But as an artisan the challenge excited him.

‘The sun and the earth,' he had mused. ‘Yes, yes, the sun must be a cluster of diamonds. Perfect diamonds set to reflect its rays from all directions. And the earth—the earth must not be flat, not like Holland. There must be texture and depth. The earth must be a great mountain.'

Lucretia had agreed. Now she marvelled at the result.

Gerrit Grij was gratified by Lucretia van den Mylen's reaction, the locket had been a labour of love, it was his finest piece and he was inordinately proud of it. The joy in Vrouwe van den Mylen's magnificent eyes gave him far more pleasure than he would ever admit. ‘The chain is strong,' he said, ‘each link is welded, you see?' He reached out his hands and gave the chain a brisk tug.

‘Oh.' Lucretia was startled by the brutality of his gesture.

‘You need have no fear of it breaking,' he added. ‘Open it.'

Gerrit's stern face, brow furrowed from forty years in his trade, softened as he watched the slender fingers turn the locket and press the catch on the side. A woman of such beauty deserved a thing of such beauty. He supposed that was why he had given the piece his greatest care
and attention. And she had spoken of her husband with such love.

‘I go to meet him in the East Indies,' she had said. ‘And I wish for a memento of some sort to travel with me. As if we were together. As if, by the grace of God, Boudewijn were there to protect me.' The light of love was so strong in her eyes that Gerrit put aside his laughable notion of any connection with the occult art of astrology. The motif was born purely of devotion.

‘The token must be in the form of a locket,' he had said, ‘with the initials of you and your husband engraved on each side of the interior.' He hadn't added ‘with a chain long enough that the pendant may rest against your heart', but he'd made the chain of such length anyway.

Lucretia opened the locket. ‘L v.d. M' was engraved in perfect copperplate on the left, and on the right, ‘B v.d. M'. ‘It is perfect,' she said, and she pressed the open locket to her breast.

The gesture touched Gerrit Grij more than he could say. ‘You are happy with the length of the chain?' he enquired as Lucretia closed the locket. ‘Allow me.' He undid the clasp and Lucretia turned, lifting her hair in its lace cowl, allowing him to secure it about her neck.

Pieter was by now unashamedly staring. His father and the beautiful woman were both too intent upon the locket to notice him anyway. He could see the nape of her neck. White. Arched. Leaning forward as she was to assist his father. Arched, like a beautiful swan.

‘Yes, I am very happy with the length of the chain,' Lucretia said. On her wide lace collar, the locket rested over her breastbone.

‘With a chain of this length,' Gerrit explained, ‘you can wear the locket at all times. As an adornment on the outside of your garment or, if you fear for its safety, it can remain hidden.'

‘Extremely practical,' Lucretia agreed, although she had
a feeling the choice of the length of chain displayed the same understanding as did the design and craftsmanship of the locket itself. But she said nothing, once more bending her neck and lifting her hair as he unclasped the locket.

A swan, Pieter thought. A glorious white swan.

‘And you will encounter times on your voyage when you will no doubt fear for its safety,' Gerrit continued, replacing the locket in its case. And for your own safety, he thought. He admired the woman for embarking upon such an arduous trip. Another measure of her love, he determined, and he prayed for her safety. Any number of disasters could befall her. Pirates, shipwreck, not to mention starvation, deprivation, and illness; ships were not known for their comfort and the voyage to the East Indies could take a year. Shipboard life was no life for a woman of breeding, as Gerrit knew well.

Lucretia read into the man's words what he was truly saying. ‘I have little to fear,' she assured him. ‘I shall be travelling aboard the finest ship ever to set sail from Amsterdam.'

‘I am glad to hear of it,' Gerrit Grij said, handing her the case. ‘I wish you well, Vrouwe van den Mylen. God speed you safely to your husband.' Then, to cover his display of sentiment, he barked at his young son, ‘Pieter, see Vrouwe van den Mylen safely downstairs.' He gestured apologetically towards his walking stick.

Pieter opened the door and led the way down the narrow staircase.

‘Pieter is it?' Lucretia said as they arrived at the little front shop which opened on to the cobbled street. She had been fully aware of the youth's surreptitious glances. She had not found them offensive, accustomed as she was to the admiration of men. Indeed, she had realised that the boy was painfully shy.

Pieter nodded. She had spoken to him! Directly to him!

‘Perhaps one day if you work very hard you may
become a great craftsman like your father.' She smiled encouragingly.

She had smiled at him! He found his voice. ‘I hope to,' he said. ‘And I do work hard. Very hard.' He glanced nervously upstairs as if his father might hear him. ‘Father is a stern taskmaster.'

‘It is apparent in his work,' Lucretia said. ‘He is a great artist. And great artists are meticulous. They must be. And you must be too, Pieter, if you wish to become a master craftsman like your father.'

‘Yes,' Pieter said, ‘I know, that is what he tells me.' She was talking to him! Actually talking to him! He wanted to keep her there in the shop, so that he could look at her and talk to her some more. But she had opened the front door. The shopbell tinkled. He must make conversation!

‘What ship do you sail on?' he asked.

‘The
Batavia,'
she said, and her smile was radiant. ‘The
Batavia.
Her maiden voyage. Goodbye, Pieter.' The shopbell tinkled as the door closed behind her.