And Fire Falls (9 page)

She felt her strength diminishing and she closed her eyes and prepared for death. She would simply go to sleep and drown. Something brushed past her legs; it felt like sandpaper. Jessica startled awake and screamed. She continued screaming until her throat was sore and her strength entirely gone. She did not see the shape approaching through the darkness of a moonless night.

7

F
or Private Tom Duffy, the sounds, smells and sights of an army encampment brought back memories of his previous war. But this time he was the old man; around him were men not even born when he had served in the trenches of the Western Front.

The recruit-training unit outside Brisbane had done its job and Tom had graduated with the youngsters. He had proved to them that he could keep up and he hoped that he would be posted to fight in the Pacific.

Tom was cleaning his rifle in the barracks when one of the instructional staff strode up to him. The man was a corporal, as old as Tom.

‘Private Duffy, you are to report to the orderly room now,’ he said.

‘What for, corp?’ Tom asked.

‘Dunno, Tom,’ the corporal replied. ‘I think it’s got something to do with the postings. I’ll secure your rifle while you head over there.’

Tom handed his Lee Enfield .303 to the corporal, placed his slouch hat on his head and marched smartly to the unit’s orderly room. It was a hot day, but some of his sweat was not due to the heat. Was it terrible news about Jessica rather than information about a posting?

Tom walked into the orderly room where a clerk sat behind his desk, shuffling papers. ‘Reporting as ordered,’ Tom said.

‘The boss wants to see you, Tom,’ the clerk said. He rose and knocked on the adjutant’s door. ‘Private Duffy is here, sir.’

‘Send him in,’ the adjutant called from behind his desk. He was a young man in his twenties and had graduated from Duntroon military college.

Tom marched in and snapped a salute.

‘I will get to the point, Private Duffy,’ the captain said after he had saluted in return. ‘Information has come to my attention that you lied about your age when you enlisted.’ Tom felt his face redden. How had the army found out? At least it was not bad news about Jessica. ‘However, I have spoken with your instructors and they assure me that you topped your platoon in recruit training, and the people in central records were able to access your previous war record.’

Tom wondered whether he would be handed over to the military police before he was dishonourably discharged.

‘Why in hell didn’t you use a false name when you signed up?’ the young captain asked with a pained expression. ‘Tracing your record was not hard.’

‘I just want to have a go,’ Tom said. ‘I believe that I’m still able to soldier, despite my age.’

The captain was wearing a highly polished Sam Browne belt and immaculately pressed uniform. He looked down at the papers in front of him; the weathered appearance of the file probably meant it had been lodged at the end of the Great War. ‘I can see from your record of service that you are a highly decorated soldier, and there is a note in your file that you were once recommended for the Victoria Cross. A very impressive service to your country.’ For a moment the young officer looked strained, as if he was struggling with something.

Tom stood at attention, staring at a portrait of the King on the wall behind the adjutant’s head. The clock on the adjacent wall could be heard ticking in the silence, while in the distance outside Tom could hear non-commissioned officers bawling out orders to men drilling on the parade ground.

‘You do realise that you have contravened the rules and regs of the army by lying when you enlisted?’ he finally said. ‘By all rights I should hand you over to the MPs and have you charged for your indiscretion.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Tom answered dutifully.

‘But we are facing desperate times, and I have no doubt your experience is equal to any five younger men we have trained,’ he said. ‘I think that the file refers to another Tom Duffy, and therefore will report so.’

Tom could hardly believe that the young officer was going to look the other way. ‘Sir, does that mean I will be sent to the Middle East to join a battalion there?’ he asked.

The captain shook his head. ‘I have recommended you for a posting to Port Moresby. A militia unit is currently holding the fort there until our chaps can be brought back from overseas to counter any possible Jap threat to our north. I also consider my recommendation a good move as your experience will be a great asset to help guide the young militia soldiers up there. We have had some disturbing reports from Moresby that discipline and morale are low. I expect you, and the other experienced soldiers, to help get the unit back on course. Pack your kit. You will be posted out tomorrow. Your movement orders are in the orderly room. You will be entrained to Cairns where you will be put on a supply ship for Moresby. Good luck, Private Duffy.’

Tom was disappointed but he realised how close he had come to being discharged. At least he was still in the army, albeit being posted to a militia unit. Already the professionals of the divisions in the Middle East were calling the militiamen the derogatory term, ‘chocolate soldiers’ – ‘chokos’ for short. From what Tom had heard around camp they had hardly any training and equipment issue was pathetic. The militia units, better known as the Citizen Military Forces, were by law unable to serve outside Australian territory, but Papua and New Guinea were classified as Australian territory.

The next day Tom reported to be shipped out to Port Moresby. His thoughts were occupied not by his upcoming mission but by his beloved daughter, Jessica. Nothing had been heard from her missionary station in New Britain and all Tom could console himself with was that no news was good news.

*

Jessica hardly felt anything. Her body and mind were numb. She no longer prayed but consoled herself with the thought that it was God’s will that she die for her sin of leaving her vocation. She could feel the hull of the canoe slip from her hands. A flurry of water beneath her feet made her aware that something very large had passed close. All her fears were confirmed when she saw the distinctive fin shape only feet from her.

*

Jack Kelly was at his watch beside the Bren gun as the schooner slipped through the calm seas. He stared blankly at the dark water at the bow and fought the desire to sleep. His eyes felt heavy and he closed them for a moment. Then suddenly he heard something and he was wide awake. It sounded like a woman’s scream. It couldn’t be a seagull, surely, as they did not appear to hunt at night.

Jack rose to his feet and turned to the cabin where the skipper stood at the helm. ‘Hey, skipper,’ he called, ‘did you hear that?’

The skipper shook his head. Jack turned to attempt to identify where the scream had originated, but he could see nothing in the dark. It must have been an hallucination, he thought. Then there was another sound, but he couldn’t tell whether it was merely an echo in his own head, the sound was so faint.

Jack scrabbled for the flashlight kept in a small locker on the deck. He switched it on and heard a shout of protest from the skipper. A light could reveal them to any nearby enemy shipping or aircraft. They were only a few miles from the Vitus group and the Japanese would be patrolling the island waters.

Jack swung the beam across the top of the ocean, but all he saw was the rolling sea. He knew he was putting the schooner and her crew at risk, but he felt compelled to do so.

‘Kill the bloody light, Jack,’ the captain yelled at him.

Jack ignored the command and continued to scan the sea with the flashlight’s beam. He saw nothing and switched off the light. Then from the corner of his eye he saw the fin of a great shark cut the phosphorus glow of the sea. He switched on the flashlight again and this time it picked up the overturned hull of a native canoe. The shark was circling, and instinctively Jack knew it meant the great predator was stalking prey.

Jack leapt behind the Bren and swivelled it on the shark and fired a burst into it. The shark disappeared and Jack turned the flashlight onto the hull he had seen. This time he could also see the vague outline of a head bobbing in the water a short distance away. The head turned and Jack shouted to the skipper, ‘We’ve got a survivor in the water.’

The skipper had already delegated the helm to one of his crew and was storming out to tear Jack apart, but he froze when he saw the bobbing head.

Jack did not hesitate. He left his gun and leapt over the side to strike out for the overturned canoe. He was a strong swimmer and in the placid sea he was able to reach the vessel quickly.

‘Hang on, cobber,’ he shouted. ‘We’ll get you out of here.’

The man did not respond, so Jack swam to him. He reached out and placed his arms around the barely floating body and almost let go with a shock when his hands brushed female breasts. The person was obviously a woman!

By now the schooner was making a sweeping turn to approach them, and the skipper had broken all his rules about lighting to keep them under observation. A lifeboat was being lowered and within minutes the Papuan crew were hauling Jack and the person he had rescued into the boat. The woman’s clothing of long pants and shirt were stained with blood and she was deathly pale.

Aboard the schooner the woman was taken below and laid out on a bunk. She opened her eyes and vomited sea water. The first words she could find were, ‘Thank you,’ to the anxious faces staring down at her.

‘I’m Jack Kelly of the NGVR. Who the hell are you?’

‘Sis . . . Jessica Duffy,’ she answered. ‘I’m escaping the Japanese.’

She was exhausted and dehydrated, but she had not suffered any wounds from the Japanese attack and an hour later she was sitting up and drinking tea.

The skipper took Jack aside. ‘You must have bloody good hearing, Jack,’ he said. ‘According to my calculations, that canoe was a good eight hundred yards away when you raised the alert. I would call Miss Duffy’s rescue a bloody miracle.’

‘You know how sound travels over water,’ Jack shrugged.

‘My Papuan boys have much better hearing than you, and none of them heard any cries,’ the skipper said.

Jack shrugged. It was not something he could explain logically. Perhaps he had simply been lucky, and so, too, had Miss Jessica Duffy.

The following morning the schooner arrived at a beach and anchored. It was met by a group of civilian expatriates: missionaries, sawmillers, planters and surviving soldiers who were taken aboard with fresh supplies of beef for the trip. All the time everyone was wary of Japanese shipping or aircraft turning up to disrupt their evacuation. In all around two hundred and fifteen people were taken on board and many put to work painting camouflage for the schooner. It was cramped but the refugees had no complaints as the ship was their ticket to freedom.

Jack had little opportunity to speak with the woman he had rescued. At one stage he was in the radio room of the boat when a signal came through to members of the NGVR. It stated that they should launch a campaign of guerrilla warfare in New Britain, but that they would receive no assistance from the government.

The senior officer of the evacuation read the order and screwed it up, tossing it aside. They were all aware how desperate the nation’s security was, but they were a mere handful of men who otherwise would have been rejected by military recruiters as being too old. Too old or not, they were fighting a desperate war against the Japanese, while the country was still attempting to get some troops to the island.

When preparations were complete, the schooner hauled anchor on sunset and headed for the open sea. Her destination was Cairns in North Queensland.

*

Sarah Macintosh shook with fury. She stood outside the office, fuming over the arrogant smirk on the manager’s face when he informed her that he did not take orders from women – especially pretty young women who should be looking for a husband and not trying to tell men how to run a business. His name was Harold Drinkwater and he had been one of Donald’s appointees. He was a man in his early thirties, with dashing good looks, and he had a reputation as a lady’s man.

Sarah regained her composure, walked smartly to her office and sat down behind her desk, where she withdrew a sheet of letterhead from a folder. Picking up her fountain pen she began to write, and when she had finished she placed the paper face down on the blotting paper to absorb the excess ink.

She folded the page and walked to Harold Drinkwater’s office with a confident stride. She did not bother knocking but walked straight into his office. He looked up with an expression of surprise.

‘What is it this time, Miss Macintosh?’ he asked in a pained voice.

‘This,’ Sarah said, thrusting the folded sheet of paper into the startled man’s face. He unfolded the page and as he read the contents he paled.

‘If this is a joke,’ he said, looking up at Sarah, ‘it is in poor taste.’

‘I can assure you, Mr Drinkwater, it is no joke. You have until the end of the day to leave these premises. I will contact the pay clerk to finalise any money owed to you.’

‘You cannot fire me,’ Drinkwater exploded. ‘I was appointed by your brother. I believe that he has returned from America and I will contact him immediately.’

‘Please do,’ Sarah said calmly and turned on her heel.

Outside in the hallway she paused and thought about Drinkwater’s threat. This time she felt a knot in her stomach. Would her brother overturn her decision to fire the manager who had disobeyed her directive to endorse a contract? Or would he put aside sibling rivalry and back her?

On her return home that evening, Sarah was confronted by Donald as soon as she entered the house.

‘What in bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ Donald raged, waving the letter she had written in her face. ‘You can’t go around sacking people just because they disagree with you. I had to take a call from a very upset Drinkwater this afternoon.’

‘I am sure that Mr Drinkwater will find employment in our armed forces,’ Sarah said calmly.

Donald frowned, clearly still furious. ‘We will put the matter to Father and see what he thinks.’

Sir George Macintosh was in his library poring over the papers Donald had signed with James Barrington Snr in the USA. He looked up when his son and daughter entered the room.

‘I fired a man today, Daddy,’ Sarah said before her brother could speak. ‘I think in my position you would have done the same.’