Papua (7 page)

‘I cannot answer that question,’ she replied with a sad smile. ‘Maybe we will return home one day for holidays.’

Paul glanced at his sister and knew that she was still angry. No matter, he thought. The sea voyage might change her disposition. But deep down he knew he was being overly optimistic. Erika was a strange young woman he had never truly understood. He could only think that their father had spoiled her too much when she was growing up. And there had been almost forgotten disturbing incidents in her past that he dismissed from his thoughts. They were not memories he wished to dwell on. Maybe her attraction to Adolf Hitler had a basis in her past. He frowned. Not that the man would amount to much in the future. By the time Erika turned twenty-one, Herr Hitler would be long gone from the political scene and just a forgotten memory for his beautiful but enigmatic sister.

Paul turned his attention to the ship that was to take them across the sea. For a fleeting moment he thought about a link the war had established with their final destination in New Guinea, the Australian captain he had met on the Hindenburg Line in the last weeks of the fighting. What was his name? It was not German, although he remembered the Australian said his mother was German.

Irish – he had an Irish name, the same or similar to the bushranger he had once read about who wore an iron suit in his battle with police forty years earlier in the Australian colony of Victoria.

Ned Kelly! And Jack Kelly was the Australian captain’s name. He wondered if the easy-going Australian had survived the war. And if he had, did he return to the country they both shared in common? He hoped so, as he would very much like to meet up again with his former enemy who had shown such compassion on the battlefield.

J
ack’s first night on Papuan soil was not restful. When sleep finally came to him he was once again in a world rent by shell bursts, screams and the pungent smell of cordite. He vaguely remembered a gentle shaking of his shoulder and a disembodied voice soothing him with, ‘It’s all right, old chap, you are safe, it’s all over.’ The screams faded and he woke to see the vague outline of his old company sergeant major bending over him.

‘Sorry, George,’ he apologised. ‘I hope I didn’t wake the neighbourhood.’

George stood and stretched. ‘Couldn’t sleep myself,’ he sighed. ‘Thought I might have a stiff drink to knock myself out.’

‘Think I will join you.’

Jack sat up and slipped on a pair of short pants to cover his nakedness. Together the two men moved to the verandah, oblivious of the danger of mosquitoes. They sat side by side on cane chairs and George produced a bottle of black rum. After he had swigged from it he passed it to Jack.

‘The nights are a bastard,’ Jack said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It all comes back.’

‘I know,’ George replied. ‘I wonder if it will ever go away. Or are we a generation doomed to terrify others with our nocturnal memories of what happened over there?’

‘Good thing we’re not married. Think our nightmares would cause some consternation with our spouses.’

‘Never thought much about marrying,’ George said as he swigged at the bottle. ‘At least until now.’

Jack glanced sharply at his friend. ‘She’s Chinese. You know there is no future in that.’

‘Iris,’ George replied in a dreamy state. ‘Iris is only half Chinese – and why do you conclude that I was alluding to her?’

‘Pretty obvious – you were like a school boy around her,’ Jack scoffed. ‘Not like the man I remember who was one of the toughest soldiers I knew.’

‘Well, yes, meeting such a divine creature does make one think of settling down,’ George conceded. ‘I have never met anyone like her in all my life.’

‘Not that you have told even me much about your life,’ Jack prompted. ‘About all I know is that you are a pom with an educated accent. That before the war you were an officer in a British regiment and that you are one of the best men I have ever had the privilege of knowing.’

George seemed to soften at the final compliment. He stared into the darkness and for a moment saw his past in the shadows. ‘One day I will tell you who I was, Jack,’ he said softly.

Jack was undeterred. ‘Obviously there is money in your past – and for that matter in your present, given the supplies you were able to purchase for our expedition.’

‘Oh a lot of money, old chap,’ George said with a slight smile on his face. ‘But money does not buy you happiness. Believe me, I know. What has brought me happiness, in an odd sort of way, has been the friendship of the men I served with in the battalion. And knowing you.’

Jack coughed lightly. In all the time they had served together, through hell and high water, neither had expressed his deepest feelings. It was not the way of tough men to do so and both recognised it was time to discontinue the conversation and seek sleep. But Jack had sensed that the crack in their tough façade had been inserted by the existence of a woman – Iris.

That night Jack sat on the edge of his mattress on the floor and gazed at a now well-worn photo of a beautiful young woman. He would never meet Erika Mann but the thought that she was out there was strangely reassuring.

When sleep did finally come to him he dreamt of a little boy who was at the same time both himself and his son Lukas.

The following day Jack decided that he and George should visit the hotel in Port Moresby. Sen lent them his horse and buggy and both men dressed in their white suits and hats for a day of drinking and socialising. It was the perfect place to possibly meet with past acquaintances from his days of prospecting before the war and chat about the latest gold news from the old hands.

The journey took them along a dirt road and past villages of natives wearing very little other than cast-off European-style dresses for the women and native skirts from waist to knee for the men. Friendly waves and greetings followed them and Jack could see George was well at home already in a world new to him.

In a quiet dusty street they brought the sulky to a stop outside a primitive looking building of corrugated iron and timber. It was close to midday and the sun was hot overhead. A sign above the door identified the establishment as a hotel although the inside did not beckon with the coolness George remembered as characteristic of hotels in Australia. The hotel sported a billiard table with a sign posted on the wall that read
Men are requested not to sleep on the billiard table with their spurs on.
George was rather alarmed at what appeared to be large bloodstains on the floor. ‘They hang a butchered sheep here once a week to bleed,’ Jack said when he noticed the Englishman’s concerned expression.

‘Then it is not just a case of poor losers settling the disputed outcome of a game with knives,’ George commented from the corner of his mouth.

‘That sometimes,’ Jack responded with an evil grin. ‘Just don’t play for money around here.’

Other than the sweltering conditions once they were inside the main bar, George’s impression of an Australian outback pub was confirmed. A handful of men leaned on the bar, a simply hewn wide plank, with their backs to the door. The shade was at least a compensation to the heat outside. One of the men at the bar turned to appraise the strangers. He was a grizzled, bearded man whose sun-blackened face reflected years living a rough outdoor life. He could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty years. For a moment he blinked at Jack then his face split into a slow but broad smile.

‘Young Jack Kelly, back from the war,’ he roared as he thrust out a dirt-grimed hand. ‘Thought the Hun might have done to you what them blackfellas up north failed to,’ he said. ‘Seems the luck of the Irish is still with ya.’

‘How you going, Harry, you old bastard?’ Jack replied with a grin, pumping the man’s hand vigorously. ‘I thought you would be dead by now from some jealous
meri
’s husband out there in the bush.’

The rest of the men at the bar turned their attention to the meeting. A couple of them moved forward to shake Jack’s hand in turn. George could see the pleasure in Jack’s face at being once again recognised by men he had trekked with in the wilds of the jungle in search of gold. The mere appearance of the men in their ragged shorts and shirts marked them as working men, unlike the few government men he had met on the ship to Moresby. Those men wore clean suits and had clean hands.

‘Everyone,’ Jack said loudly to call attention to his announcement. ‘I want you to meet a real fair dinkum mate of mine, Mr George Spencer. And although he’s a bloody pom, he was also the finest company sergeant major Australia ever had sail for France.’

‘Pleased to meet yer’ followed and a couple of brandies were thrust in their hands. For the next few hours George said little as the conversation spoken in unintelligible prospecting terms flowed with the spirits. Even so, George allowed himself to mellow into the camaraderie of the men. There was talk of the war as two of the prospectors had served in the army, but mostly gossip about the fates of the old hands. But one thing George did note was how Jack would appear to dismiss much of the gossip and hold onto other parts. This was not just a chance to catch up with old mates but an intelligence gathering opportunity.

By the time they were ready to leave towards mid afternoon, Jack had compiled a list of updates ranging from the current price of native labour to where gold may be found, from who was in the country to the availability of permits from the government men who controlled the territory.

For the trip back to Sen’s residence George took over the reins. As they passed through the ramshackle town of plain European houses and dusty rutted streets that was Port Moresby, he had noted that he was just a little soberer than his former commanding officer. Jack was sleepy from the effects of the many rounds of strong spirits and mumbled something that attracted George’s attention. The Australian appeared either angry or disturbed. It was a name – something like O’Leary. Whoever O’Leary was he was certainly not a friend to Jack Kelly.

Recovering from his hangover, Jack rose from beneath his mosquito net and ambled into the tropical garden dressed in shirt and shorts. George and Iris were admiring the splash of brilliantly coloured flowers. Jack smiled. They were like two young lovers in the way they communicated with subtle body movements. But Iris was rather young, Jack realised. George was at least fifteen years her senior and he was the one acting like a lovesick school boy. Loath to intrude upon them, he was about to return to the house when George glanced in his direction.

‘Jack! Thought you were dead,’ he greeted warmly. ‘It seemed that the bottle did you more damage than Fritz ever could.’

‘Alive as you can see,’ Jack replied. ‘And ready to return to Moresby.’

‘The pub?’

‘No, a visit to an old friend who I think will impress your English sense of class.’

George’s hand brushed Iris’s hand and she smiled. Jack noticed the serenity in his former sergeant major’s expression. He had never seen him so peaceful and happy. The three strolled back to the house where Sen’s wife had prepared a breakfast of a fresh fruit platter. As they ate, the fruit juices helped wash away the remnants of the previous day’s excesses.

George was duly impressed, as Jack had predicted, when they arrived at their Moresby destination. The two men were ushered into Sir Hubert Murray’s office at Government House by a stiff-necked clerk.

A robust giant of a man in his mid fifties met them from behind his desk. ‘Young Jack Kelly,’ he said with a broad smile across his still handsome face. ‘I heard that you covered yourself in glory for the Empire in the recent Great War.’

‘Sir Hubert,’ Jack said, a little self-conscious in the presence of the man who was somewhat of a legend in his lifetime. ‘It is good to see you again.’

Sir Hubert’s eyes came to rest on George. ‘We have not had the pleasure, sir,’ he said and George shook his hand.

‘George Spencer, sir,’ he said. ‘I assure you that the pleasure and honour is mine.’

‘Spencer, you say,’ Sir Hubert said with a puzzled expression. ‘I knew a Spencer from my days at Oxford. A man who looked very much like you. Lord Spencer I believe he is now.’

Jack noticed that George seemed to be taken by surprise, his normally reserved demeanour shaken for just a moment. ‘Possibly a distant relative,’ George countered.

‘Well, so much for idle chit chat,’ Sir Hubert said, clasping his hands behind his back and standing ramrod straight before the two men. ‘So I am going to tell you, Jack, before you even ask – as I suspect that you are here for a reason – the answer is no to me granting you permits to go off into the uncontrolled regions prospecting for gold. The military administration in the old German territories has not resolved that matter yet.’

‘Sir Hubert,’ Jack said throwing up his hands in protest, ‘it is not gold that brings me to you personally but the Orangwoks.’

Sir Hubert blinked and for a second gaped. ‘Good lord! Surely you don’t believe those stories written by that mad Froggy do you?’ he exclaimed.

‘I do, Sir Hubert,’ George said quietly. ‘I believe that an island this big must have at its unexplored heart many people living in settlements. Who and what they are I feel is one of the last great questions begging an answer in our modern times. Sir, we know more about the heart of Africa than we know about the heart of this land.’

Sir Hubert turned his attention to George and was silent for a moment as he appraised the Englishman. He was so like the young Irish Catholic Oxford graduate who had won the English heavyweight boxing title years earlier. He searched for a weakness in the aristocratic looking Englishman who stood in his office and talked of Orangwoks. ‘What makes you think that there are people living in the unexplored territory?’

‘Well, sir,’ George reasoned, ‘we know that people live along the coastline and into many parts close to the coast. I just believe that it is in the nature of mankind to forever migrate into uninhabited areas. And thus for thousands of years I believe that the ancestors of the people from the coastal areas must have moved inland to new areas. It is as simple as that.’

Sir Hubert pondered on the answer. ‘I have always thought that myself,’ he mused in measured tones. ‘I have heard rumours that the German Lutheran missionaries have some knowledge of people living beyond our control but they have stayed tight lipped on the subject.’ He glanced at Jack with a hint of suspicion. ‘And you are not looking for gold?’

‘Just Orangwoks,’ Jack answered him in his sincerest voice. ‘George has kindly requested my services as an old Papua hand to assist his exploratory expedition.’

‘Damned if I should believe either of you,’ Sir Hubert guffawed. ‘But I will see that the proper permits are drawn up – with no gold prospecting and a few other conditions.’

Jack felt his initial enthusiasm wane. ‘Conditions, Sir Hubert?’ he asked. ‘What other conditions?’

‘That you take a contingent of police boys with you. And any other conditions that I might think of between now and when I sign the permits.’

‘Reasonable enough,’ Jack said, and held out his hand to seal the deal. ‘I cannot thank you enough, Sir Hubert, for what you are doing to advance man’s knowledge of his fellow man.’