

The Rich Girl, the Poor Girl, the Coastwatcher and me

Anecdotes and reminiscences from the collected papers of Justin Bornmann

by Ray Johnston

Copyright 2015 Ray Johnston

Smashwords Edition

ISBN 9781310434945

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Thank you for respecting the work of the author.

This is a fictional story based on true stories. Where actions of fictional characters are inspired by real events, it is not the author's intention to portray the actions or thoughts of the characters as representing similarity to the actions or words of real people living or dead, except in matters of fact. References to environmental conservation issues are fictional, although similar or parallel concerns may have arisen in other places.

Views expressed by the characters do not necessarily reflect the author's views.

For the sake of authenticity the author has portrayed characters speaking colloquially

or profanely or using expressions reflecting social presumptions of the past.

Cover and maps designed and produced by Luke Harris of Working Type Studio.
Table of Contents

Appreciation

Glossary

Maps

The characters

Before the beginning

Defining moments

Africa

The mountains

More defining moments

New beginnings

Acknowledgements

About the author

Other books by this author

Connect with the author
Appreciation

The Nakanai people of New Britain showed me by example how to live an uncluttered life and how to face discomfort and adversity with cheerfulness.

I especially thank the people of Karapi village and Toa hamlet, my in-laws of the Kevemumuki clan, brothers and sisters of the Kea clan and friends of the Kabulubulu and other clans, for their friendship over many years.

To teachers, business people, missionaries, aid workers and officials I met in settlements, villages and towns from Rabaul to Cape Gloucester, I offer my thanks for warm welcomes, cold drinks, rides to airstrips and other acts of kindness.

I thank the trial readers, manuscript evaluators and copy editors who saw something worthwhile in earlier versions of this work and offered encouragement as I traversed the arduous path of drafting, revising, editing and polishing.

Isabella, thank you for taking care of me during a year of chemotherapy that saw many a page of poor drafting, and for standing with me through heart surgery, the complications of which almost brought this project to a premature end. And thank you, Tom, for your patience.

Acknowledgements and sources are listed at the end of the book.
Glossary of Tokpisin (Pidgin) and slang words

Arse: Australian slang for the buttocks; butt, ass (Tokpisin as).

Balus: airplane, aeroplane.

Birua: enemy.

Feller: fellow: phonetic rendering of colloquial Australian pronunciation.

Fellow: a man; any man; guy, dude, bloke.

Kanaka: an unsophisticated indigenous person; a pejorative term.

Kunai: high-growing tropical savanna species of grass (Imperata Cylindrica).

Kwila: a tall, strong tropical hardwood tree (Intsia species).

Laplap: a cloth wound around the waist.

Loin cloth: a cloth passed between the legs and tied off around the waist.

Luluai: in colonial New Guinea, a local person appointed to lead a local area.

Masta: a Caucasian man

Misis: a Caucasian woman

Netip: an indigenous person. English 'native.'

Pasta: pastor.

PNG: Papua New Guinea.

Raskol: a gang member; hoodlum.

Tokpisin: a creolized trade language widely used in PNG; often called 'Pidgin.'

Tultul: in colonial New Guinea, a local person appointed as registrar of a village.
Maps

Burundi and Rwanda

The island of New Britain

Operation Little Bull

Burundi and Rwanda  
The island of New Britain  
Operation Little Bull  
The characters

Principals

The rich girl, stockbroker Ruth Feingold

The coastwatcher, Rex Davidson who led Operation Little Bull

The poor girl, refugee Miriam Lazar who became Rex's lover

The narrator, Justin Bornmann, a disillusioned man

2000 – 2009

Ruth's lover in New Britain, Kazuo Hashimoto, a forester

Ruth's personal assistant in Africa, Michel Twaglimana

Ruth's savior in Africa, the bushman Tuga Bububu Uru

1942 – 1945

Rex's allies: Samo Barilae, leader North Coast; Comenius Telakul, leader South Coast

Rex's military comrades: Lt. John Loving, Sgt. Jim Brothers and Lt. Paul Bondman

Rex's local comrades: Sgt-Major Pita 'Rocky' Kepas, Sgt. Maekel Pasila and their squads

Rex's American visitor: USAAF reconnaissance pilot, Breeze Champion

Rex's enemies: Lt.-Cdr Kasumi Hashimoto, Major Takashi Yamashiro, Cpl Iudas Birua

Before the beginning

Le jeu n'en vaut pas la chandelle.

The game is not worth a candle.

I've had a chronic condition from birth. I'm male.

"Mrs. Bornmann, you have a son," the doctor said, and placed me in my mother's arms; then, the way she tells it, she said, "Hello, Justin," and I opened my eyes.

Yes, a baby of the boy variety I was, my stiff little penis and swollen red scrotum in plain sight, announcing the fact, testifying to it, shouting it to the world; appendages which in years to come would complicate and disrupt the way I look at love, this being an observation so likely to lead appendaged readers to nod their heads and readers not so appendaged to shake theirs, that I feel compelled to move on.

But first, let me ask you about destiny. I didn't always believe in it, but the rich girl, the poor girl and the coastwatcher changed that. They were everything I'm not: the rich girl, bold, attractive and successful; the poor girl, elegant, gentle and uncomplicated; and the coastwatcher, a man with a purpose, a man with nerves of steel.

Before the beginning is the turn of the millennium: before Twitter, before Facebook, before the iPhone; bold, brash years, in which nine and eleven are still just a couple of numbers.

In these heady, confident times, I abandon the dried out husks of career and marriage and fly to Rabaul on the island of New Britain, to track down stories about a man who risked his life behind enemy lines half a century before, the coastwatcher Rex Davidson.

The plane lifts off and the pilot tilts the nose skyward.

Getting there's the easy part, I tell myself.

I steady my nerves flicking through the pages of my notebook.

"In the early 1940s," I've written in some library somewhere, "as the storm clouds of war gathered over the Pacific, Australia set up a network of behind-the-lines observers in the islands to her North, charged with the task of calling in information about the enemy on a secret radio frequency. These lone wolves were called coastwatchers."

The homework's done. This trip's not a wild goose chase.

"From 1942," my handwriting tells me, "the Coastwatchers served under the command of the Allied Intelligence Bureau."

My own notes, ferkraissake. Riveting.

A trolley rattles. I smell coffee, look up and catch the smile of the flight attendant. For a moment hopes are high, but breakfast is nothing more than lukewarm beverage and two dry cookies in a cellophane packet. I gulp my coffee and return to my papers. In a copy of an old debriefing report, I see a note inked in the margin god knows when by heaven knows that says, simply, "Rex Davidson: Coastwatcher par excellence."

The wheels bump onto the tarmac and I remember how lonely I am. Traveling is the easy part. Being where you're going is something else altogether.

It's my first night in town, and I'm alone in the lounge of the Community Hostel wondering where my life is going.

Ruth, the rich girl in this story, is here on vacation. I don't know her name. I've only just seen her for the first time; but to a man alone in a bar at the end of the world she's water in a desert.

Kismet? Destiny? With 20-20 hindsight, I tell you this: Had I not been obsessed with the coastwatcher, Rex Davidson, I'd never have met Ruth. And had it not been for me telling her about the coastwatcher, she wouldn't have known who Miriam was when they met, and that would have been too bad; because, years before, Rex had rescued Miriam when she was just a poor refugee on the run, and she's the poor girl in the story. And if Ruth hadn't gone trekking with Hashi, a handsome Japanese forester, she would never have met Miriam in the first place.

Right away things get complicated. Ruth has eyes only for Hashi, and I, being much older, have to be content to be her admirer and cheerleader. That's fact one. Fact two is that Hashi is on a pilgrimage to follow the path of his grandfather's wartime patrols into the interior.

I stumble across fact 3 when Hashi and I compare notes and realize that the man his grandfather hunted down in the mountains is none other than the coastwatcher, Rex Davidson.

Then there's the future.

I'm at my gate, waiting for the mailman.

Every second year my friend Ruth sends me her Rouge G de Guerlain lipstick compact on the last day of June and I post it back to her on the same day the following year. It's an innocent ritual she dreamed up to remind us of good times.

But this year I've waited in vain.

I hear a motorcycle brake, pause and move off again.

Maybe today.

The mailman props at my gate and makes a show of riffing through a bundle of letters.

Oh God. Nothing. Again.

"Justin Bornmann?" he says, all bright and breezy.

"Forget the shtick, you're only making things worse."

"I'll bring a few beers over after work," he says, and the man's as good as his word, because that evening he turns up with a couple of friends and two cartons of beer. I'm pleased, because it's months since I've had company, so I fire up the grill and throw on some steaks.

When we're three sheets to the wind it seems a good idea to tell the story of Ruth Feingold, and there being no objections, I launch in.

My monologue finally runs its course and silence fills the damp evening air. The guests drain their glasses, put on their jackets and leave, and as their laughter recedes into the night I go back to the dishes and empty bottles to do the least that can be done before morning.

I heave a bag of empties out, totter bleary-eyed to my bed, throw myself down and fall into a fitful sleep that is little more than an eerie contracting of my mind. Unbidden, specters of deeds left undone, opportunities lost, and ends left untied parade in my head.

But good can come of such small crucifixions. As I lie alone in the translucent light of the streetlamp through the curtain, the story of my friend, the stockbroker who reinvented herself as an aid worker, begins to flow.

They say men love with their eyes. And even now my heart still misses a beat when I see a photo of her or conjure her image in my mind.

I hear her whisper words that changed me.

I feel myself falling.

She's gifted, unique. And you can take it from one who has had the ecstatic, mind-blowing pleasure—she's very good at what she does.

She can do many things, but above all else, with much grace and little mercy, she will dispel your delusions.

Take me for instance. I was the worst of fools: a man with no inkling of his limitations. Shackled by small ambitions, blinded by pride, I believed only in what I could see, hear and touch.

It was Ruth who changed me.

The words compose themselves into syntactic sense. I rub my eyes, grab my notebook and begin to write.

I remember the moment I broke through the veils.

Then, unbidden, a voice: "Let it flow."

My notepad stares at me, sweat-dampened.

I keep writing. _Ruth and I were the closest of friends and had I been thirty years younger I'd have asked her to be my lover. That's how close._

"Go on."

As a young woman, bold and beautiful, Ruth was a gift to journalists. They claimed her as their own, and in the whole tawdry process the truth was lost.

"That's just the rich girl's story," says the muse, "the piece of the puzzle you stumbled onto like an ape finding an opal. What about the other pieces: the story of the poor girl, Miriam; and the stories of Rex behind the lines?"

No one is there, so I speak to the wall. "Bed, dresser, picture, mirror, window, pillow, pen, notebook, night lamp ... present, past and future... sort of; a beginning, a middle, an end... kind of; my collected papers... thank God. And more points of view than I can poke a stick at. It's enough."

I nestle into the quilt, but there's a final word.

"It's their story," says the voice. "Let them tell it."
Defining Moments

Elathon ... angelous.

Angels ... unawares.

Pros Hebraious xiii:2
Chapter one

Ruth

You said to tell it all and tell it my way, Justin. Well, this is the first installment.

Name: Ruth Feingold; born New York, 1972.

Profession: stockbroker.

Most significant moment: the fiery blast at B24.

Experience: living with 30% of my body scarred.

Goal: to deal with it and start over.

Here's the thing: I had a penthouse in Manhattan; now I live in a clay-brick house in Burundi; and the journey from New York to Africa is my story.

The Armani-suited man standing by the stairs was intent upon waylaying me and I wasn't thinking about how to avoid him. Too tall. Too well dressed. Too much the kind of guy a girl wants to meet. So I looked at the wall and kept walking. "Adonis," I murmured closing fast, "for you and no one else will I be late for class."

Adonis extended his hand. "Ms. Feingold?" he asked, and encouraged by the merest, hint of a nod, he continued. "My name is Wilbur Snook and I represent one of the top-ranked brokerage firms in New York.

Change your name, Adonis. Clint, Todd, Brad... anything but Wilbur... anything but Snook.

It was too fast, too unexpected. I'm a sharp girl, but I have my moments and this was one. The two sides of my brain fell into discussion and I almost missed what came next.

"I've come to offer you a place in our Associates program," Wilbur said, holding up and then letting fall loose the pages of a concertina-folded brochure, the trailing ends of which fluttered like a victory ensign as Wilbur's confident smile reassured me this was my lucky day.

Wilbur and his brochure must have convinced me, for following lunch with him that day and exams the following week, I turned up on the first Monday of the third week of June at corporate headquarters, along with a handful of similarly breathless, wide-eyed investment tyros, and embarked on an exhausting training program at the end of which I was found to have the stamina, the smarts, the education, the looks and the pizzazz to make the cut.

From day one I put on a mask. I adopted the persona of a polite, reasonable, courteously urgent team player, and succeeded in fooling everyone, including myself; but beneath the veneer of respectability, I cared about nothing other than satisfying my own desires and pursuing my own dreams.

It worked well, and in less than seven years I became the fastest-rising young female star on Wall Street, lit up by the adulation of business and social journalists and all too willing to believe the exaggerations and half-truths they wrote about me.

One morning in the Spring of '99, however, I shut down. Throbbing temples and aching muscles joined voices demanding I stay in bed, but since the trading bell was due to ring in less than two hours, I staggered to the kitchen, where in the space of half a minute I succeeded in frustrating and surprising myself in equal measure by dropping a glass of juice that smashed down on the tiled floor, then dropping a full pot of hot coffee and scalding my ankles.

In the shower I could hardly hold the soap and when I was done my skin felt clammy. On the way to work everything looked blurry, and by the time I arrived I was seeing double. I went up to the office via the service elevator and made my way, head down, past the storeroom to my workstation.

Slumped at my desk, I surveyed my little world: a computer, a mouse, some papers, a few photos stuck up with colored pins and an unwashed coffee cup. I cast a doleful look at the three handsets on my desk. Along with my cell phone they were my weapons of war, but today they filled me with fear, for I was certain that were two to ring at once I would freeze, and if three I'd lose my mind.

My colleagues were preparing for another frenetic day. The aroma of hot butter drifted across the room and I remembered this was slam dunk day. For the first hour of trading anyone who posted a deal would lob a handful of popcorn through a basketball hoop. Usually I'd kick off my shoes and tread popcorn into the carpet with the rest of them. But not today.

I retreated to the ladies' room.

"You need a break," I told myself. "No more than three weeks. People may get nosy."

I wondered what my colleagues would say. They spent weekends para-skiing, para-gliding or diving in Colorado, the Bahamas or Florida But I never had anything to talk about except work.

I stepped over to the mirror to freshen up.

"You need somewhere a thousand miles away from five-star clichés," the person in the mirror said. "You have a date with Google."

A few key strokes and there it was, shimmering green and blue on the screen, the place in the Pacific I wanted to be, diving on the tropical reefs of Talasea on the island of New Britain. "No frills." The banner said. "Just a seaside shack, coconuts, bananas and all the seafood you can eat."

"Okay, a two-star cliché that trumps all the five-star same-o vacation places I've yawned my way through hearing about from my co-workers suits just fine," I mused and kept reading.

"Did we mention the four thousand species of coral, and the reefs to die for?" the center spread trumpeted.

That clinched it.

In three days I was on my way.

The cab to the airport smelt of bagels and coffee. Dad was in the front and Mom and I were in the back. As we weaved through the traffic I stared blankly out the window.

From Drop-off to Check-in was a long walk through a throng of people. "Oy vey," Dad said. "This you do to relax?"

At Security my mother kissed me and turned away. "My daughter trades New York for the jungle," she announced to a passer-by, then lapsed silent.

I gave Dad a hug and went through for inspection. When I turned for a final wave I saw my mother standing by the gate, her arms raised in rabbinical pose. "So much for a graduate degree," she called. The guard with the metal detector frowned and just a few paces to Mom's left a thick-set man in stout boots raised a hand to the open left breast of his well cut jacket and took half a step towards her.

I settled into my seat in first class as carefree as a co-ed on summer break. After a stopover in Singapore, a city to which I'd traveled on shopping sprees with well-heeled girlfriends, I boarded for Papua New Guinea.

Disembarking at Port Moresby was like stepping into a sauna, but neither the soaring temperature nor the long arrivals queue could dampen my enthusiasm, and when I cleared Customs an hour later just a little sweatier and only a little less energetic, I still had a spring in my step; but my good mood lasted only as long as it took to walk to the domestic terminal, for when I went to check in for my flight to Hoskins I received the dismal news that a blanket of smoke and ash from a volcano had closed airports on the northwest coast of New Britain.

My smile disappeared and dark images flooded into my mind. I thought about the photos that might have been and the stories I'd never be able to tell because nothing happened: nil; _nada_ ; zero. Then, a glimmer of hope: The clerk offered me a ticket to Rabaul on the Gazelle Peninsula, an hour's flight beyond the diving resort at Talasea where I had expected to go. I'd done my homework. I knew Rabaul trumped tiny Talasea for glamour, and I knew the Gazelle had just as many tropical hideaways as the rest of the island. My options were to throw a tantrum or salvage my vacation, and for an optimist like me that was a no-brainer.

The engines droned and a monotonous parade of peaks passed slowly beneath the wing. When I awoke we were tracking the coast of New Britain, etched white by waves breaking on the inshore reefs.

Almost there.

I told the cab driver I wanted to give big hotels a miss. He said the community hostel was a relaxed, down-market place with interesting characters and I should check it out. The man was spot on. That hostel by the bay was where I wanted to be: tropical kitsch; the kind of place where they charge less per night than the price of a New York lunch; the kind of place where a girl sips a mint julep and wonders whether a movie star traveling incognito might turn up. Dream on you say, but it got even better. When I went looking for company, right off the bat I came across three very cool backpackers in the lounge: Dan, an American graduate student, Alois, a young local professional, and Hashi, a handsome guy of Japanese or maybe Korean heritage. He was half a head shorter than me, with the body of a formula-one driver, a smile to slay a girl with, chocolate pool eyes and a confident, tranquil manner.

We drank, pored over maps, drank some more, and talked about the exciting things we would do, but of the four of us, it was Hashi who had the most interesting plans. He was going to retrace the path of a patrol his grandfather led on the island in the war.

Hashi was sure of himself, but his certainty of manner did not overflow into brashness. He was placid and approachable, but not in the least docile or lazy.

For every topic I raised, Hashi came up with a fresh take that was neither pretentious nor clichéd. His readiness to share led to long-windedness, but this was balanced by a tolerant, gently humorous manner.

Hashi asked me if I had sight-seeing in mind and launched into a description of the local tourist attractions. I wasn't on the tourist track, but that was beside the point. I could have listened to the light baritone of his voice and enjoyed the earnest expression on his face all night. But all that became academic when Hashi, in a single, nerve-tingling moment, leant towards me and asked what I thought.

"If it's not tourism you're into, what have you come for?" he said.

I had found that rarest of creatures, a man who listens, and a wave of joy swept over me.

But there's always a hitch: My heart was set on scuba diving, but Hashi was on a pilgrimage. I was headed for the beach and he was headed for the mountains.

That night, in that town at the end of the world, I needed someone I could talk to, and as it turned out, Justin, I wasn't alone. We'd only just met, but I trusted you, and you were there... the oasis in my desert.

"Our heads are just not in the same space," I complained.

"You're looking for fun in the sun," you said, "but Hashi's a man on a mission"

I thought I'd found a sympathetic ear, but not so. I'll never erase the conversation that followed when I told you I was going to blow Hashi off. In a soft voice, you spoke diplomatically of options and considerations and as you gently searched out my innermost thoughts, you caught me so completely off guard I foundered. Suddenly I was sixteen again. My heart pounded, and the censor in my head shouted, "You are just another promising young woman hung up on security; busy, predictable, boring... and too soon middle-aged."

In the morning, the others got in on it. They'd seen the spark between Hashi and me and were looking to fan it into flame. They didn't have to try very hard. Going with Hashi was what my heart wanted. 'Leap of faith' my ass. I fell and you gave me a push. I saw you smiling, you sly fox.

Next morning, when the backpackers heard I was going with Hashi, they drank a toast in orange juice. And you continued sowing the seeds of your ideas. You told us about a lookout in the mountains called B24 and the wreck of an old bomber. You said breakfast need not be our final farewell and suggested that on our way back to Rabaul from our travels on the island we should meet up there for one last party before going our separate ways. It would be an adventure, you said, an awesome photo opportunity.
Chapter two

Justin

In the years following puberty, I drifted to a tranquil place where the urgency with which my glands buffeted me diminished, and I had a shot at getting some things straight.

Such as love.

One night, in the lounge of a beachside hostel in the town of Rabaul on the island of New Britain, I found myself in a defining moment that I can only describe in clichés. That night, with moonlight shimmering on the dark waters of the bay and a gentle breeze in the palms, I saw Ruth for the first time. Having been so often bamboozled by lust, I knew not to rush in, but being now older and wiser, I was certain I could trust my instinct.

The lines on my face and the lack of lines on hers shouted the unforgiving truth of the difference between us in years, but I would not let it go.

Presumptuous? Foolhardy?

I started with the coward's wait and see approach, and things didn't look good, for plainly she had eyes only for the backpackers she'd just met and especially the handsome Japanese guy.

"Tomorrow, she'll move on," I told myself. "You'll never see her again," said the voice inside my head. "Do something." But I blew my chance. I told myself I was too old, told myself not to get sidetracked; and retreated to the verandah like a whipped dog, away from the sight of her hazel eyes and long auburn hair, hoping the breeze off the bay would cool my cheeks and blow away my shame. "What if she knows," I whispered to the moon. "Women listen to what you don't say."

I had walked away. Not even given it a shot, and a poor choice it was. But there's always a way back. It's a matter of finding that path to redemption and taking the first step.

Where courage failed, destiny intervened. Dream Girl stayed for a few days, no doubt to spend more time with the Japanese guy.

Having squibbed it once, I wasn't about to let a second chance go by, and next evening an opportunity came: Dream Girl was in the lounge without her new friend and I made my way to her table. She looked up and my mind went blank, but then she smiled and brushed aside a tress of hair and I found my tongue.

"I'm the guy at the next table," I said.

She smiled and gestured for me to sit down.

There was nothing chance about it. Man proposes; woman disposes. Dream Girl knew I wanted to be with her and she gave me the chance. We both knew I was too old to compete with her handsome young friend, so we talked about that, and, boiled to the bone, the conversation went like this: We asked whether we wanted to get to know each other, and the answer was yes; I asked if she was willing to accept me as an admirer, and she said yes; and she asked me if I was willing to know her but never have her, and I said yes.

She offered me her business card, an expensive little item with her name embossed.

"Ruth Feingold...," I read. "It has a ring to it."

"Jewish," she said, "from New York. I'm a stockbroker."

"Why are you here?"

"I'm taking a vacation before they work me to death. What about you?"

"I'm here collecting stories about a coastwatcher, an unsung hero."

"What's so important about the guy?"

"Coastwatchers hid in the mountains behind the lines and reported enemy movements. Rex risked his life on this island to liberate it. There are countless stories about him, all kinds of things people say he did, and I want to check them out. It's my obsession, my _raison d'être_.

"Business, then; not pleasure?"

"There's no grand plan," I said. "Coming here was the next thing. And now I've met you."

A couple of years later, I visited Ruth. Her new job was taking care of orphans in the Central African republic of Burundi. She was returning from a funding campaign in New York. My flight arrived the day before hers and I was at Bujumbura airport the next day to welcome her.

And no ordinary day it turned out to be. The president of the republic blew us all away ─press, officials, everybody ─ when he turned up at the airport unannounced.

That night I wrote up my diary with special care.

1 November, 2002

Hotel Club du Lac Tanganyika

"A few words penned cannot truly capture the drama of today, but here I am in room 2001, looking over the lake, sipping a vermouth with ice and doing my best to write it all down ─ everything I saw and heard.

"By the time I reached the airport I felt as though I'd taken a shower with my clothes on, and it was only mid-morning.

"People had been streaming in since dawn ─ chanting, swaying, singing. As the temperature soared and the kiosk ran out of coke and the plumbing failed, the crowd lapsed silent, but when the sound of turbines drowned out the cry of crows over the fields, smiles once more lit faces and the chanting started again.

"The Burundian Police Band marched in, drums rolling, brass sparkling. The plane touched down and the throng surged onto the tarmac, but it was more a carnival than a riot, and with hardly a frown, the police restored order.

"As the plane taxied, officials rolled out a red carpet. The roar of the plane's engines subsided, an order rang out and a splendidly uniformed squad of soldiers marched in. A file of armed police fanned out around the plane, and a black limousine appeared out of the hazy heat. The guard of honor presented arms and the President of the Republika y'u Burundi stepped down. When he kissed Ruth on both cheeks, the crowd went wild. And when he presented her with the National Order of the Republic, the roar of the throng echoed across the tarmac.

"There is only one Ma'mselle Ruth."

There's no denying the reality of what Ruth and I had, nor the thrill, for the that space with no name at the centre of the delta marked in its corners with the words friendship, love and sex, is uncharted territory, and I've lost count of the nights I've lain awake exploring that no-man's-land.

As for the physical part, that's a standing joke between us, the kind of joke at which the appendages between my legs had not previously permitted me to laugh.

I long to tell the world about Ruth, but to do justice to her story I need also to tell the stories of the unforgettable personalities she met on her journey from stockbroker to aid worker.

First in the frame is Ruth's friend Hashi, the Japanese guy whose looks and charm trumped my meager offerings.

Then there's the old woman, Miriam, whom Ruth met when she trekked with Hashi into the mountains. The Australian coastwatcher Rex Davidson rescued her from the Japanese invasion and took care of her through the darkest days of the war.

Three others demand a mention: Michel Twaglimana, who helped Ruth set up the orphanage; Tuga, the wandering bushman who twice saved Ruth's life; and Breeze Champion, the pilot who, like Ruth, reinvented himself. He was there the second time Tuga rescued Ruth and he slept through the whole thing. But there's a lot more than that to say about him.
Chapter three

Ruth

Testimony to the Coroner's Court

Rabaul February 2001

Tell the Court all you recall, Ms. Feingold.

Hashi and I arrived at B24 in the hottest part of the afternoon. The coolest place was a glade where the sheared wings, smashed tail and shattered frame of the old bomber lodged in the trees cast a wide shadow. There we pitched our tent, grateful for a breeze easing up from the creek, settled down facing away from the glare of the sun and waited for Dan and Alois. Hashi dozed off and I took out my tattered Harper's Bazaar magazine, but I'd read it many times, right down to the names of the sub-editors, so I passed the time listening to the sounds of the bush.

A figure emerged from the rainforest on the far side of the clearing.

"If he's white and walking towards us, it's Dan," Hashi said.

...

The Court is pleased to record all of your testimony, Ms. Feingold.

Thank you, Your Honor. The next thing was Alois turning up. He straggled in, worn out, just after sundown.

"You cut it fine," said Hashi.

Alois grinned. "It was further and steeper than I expected," he replied.

None of us were of a mind to cook, so we set prepared a simple meal of crackers, tinned beef, salsa dip and cheese.

Hashi placed a canteen of water beside the food. "Bon appétit," he announced. "Not exactly the celebration we had in mind," he said with a gloomy look, then brought forth from his pack a bottle of whisky. "You city kids don't know how to prepare for the bush," he said, waving the bottle as a champion waves a trophy. "It's party time."

...

Take your time, Ms. Feingold.

Kingfishers calling in the gully woke me early. Bleary-eyed and hung over, I shuffled to the campfire, blew the embers into life and squatted there, staring into the flames and nursing my throbbing head, until Hashi appeared with a box of aspirin and a mug of water.

But Hashi's kindness did not extend to the others. He rattled around getting cups and spoons, making no attempt at being quiet until he woke everyone up. They groaned and rubbed their eyes but Hashi was unrepentant. 'Coffee doesn't just fix itself,' he said. And he must have adjudged two headache pills and five minutes' rest enough for me to be cured, for he placed the billycan in my hand and pointed to the gully.

Long, wet blades of _kunai_ grass scratched my legs and soaked my socks; but as I pushed through the waist-high clumps, the dew-covered casuarinas and willows that lined the edge of the gully began to sparkle in the morning sun, and as the sun rose higher, they gleamed all the brighter, like a glowing row of legionaries turned out in bronze.

Thoughts of scratched legs and wet socks faded from my mind, and I stood there, mute and motionless, held in thrall by the beauty until a breeze shook the droplets off in a shimmering shower of emerald, myrtle and olive reflections so bright I had to look away.

I walked along the edge of the gully and found a cleft in the bank where I could climb down into the creek-bed, but as I grabbed hold of a root to steady myself, the crack of big timber splitting tore the air. I looked back and saw three massive branches heave, twist and break from the trees where the bomber was lodged.

I drew back, lost my footing and fell into the gully. And that's why I survived, for as the splintered trunks buckled, the shattered body of the bomber jerked downward, taking a limb with it, the broken base of which became a fulcrum on which the fuselage pivoted, exerting massive force on the surrounding timber. Trees that had held the plane in place for half a century snapped like matchsticks and the bomber plunged to the ground.

The root I was clutching snapped and I slid back down the bank.

The next seconds are a blur. A blast brighter than the sun turned the air orange and a wave of scorched air rolled me over and flung me like a rag doll into the water, where I lay senseless until the cool flow of the creek revived me.

I ran to help the others. All except Hashi were dead. I dragged him away from a patch of burning grass, beating at the flames eating his skin, but my clothes caught fire and I had to roll on the ground.

For a moment I felt I was floating above it all. Orange flames turned gold and yellow. I noticed crocuses and ginger plants. The crackling of the fire muted to white noise; then, the pain returned, searing, overwhelming, and I passed out.

A family gardening nearby gave me water, shaded me and sang lullabies. I came to my senses, and then lapsed back into unconsciousness.

...

Please continue when you are able, Ms. Feingold.

Through a haze of pain I saw a man stoop over me. The stranger stuffed a handful of herbs into his mouth and chewed them until they made a paste. He gently spat a soft ball of the paste onto one of the burns on my arm. It was soothingly cool and the aroma overcame the smell of burnt flesh.

Rocking on his heels, the stranger first chewed the herbs, then spat the paste, intoned a prayer, spoke soothingly to me and then started the cycle again.

The pain eased enough for me to take stock. My helper was a ruggedly handsome black man. Slim of waist and broad in the chest, the perfection of his muscular body and serenity of his presence were at odds with the shabbiness of his grimy, torn laplap.

"I came to help and now I'm done," he said; and with neither explanation nor farewell, he stood up, picked up his bushknife and walked off into the forest.

That was the second-last thing I recall. The last thing was the tack-tack-tack of rotor blades. When I awoke I was in Rabaul in a bed surrounded by clear plastic, with a masked nurse peering down and a ceiling fan gently turning above the transparent ceiling of my sterile tent. From there they flew me to Port Moresby hospital, and when my condition stabilized I was transferred to Brisbane and admitted to the burns unit.
Chapter four

Justin

Day after day I paced the floor; until, on the first morning of the third week the hospital called.

"Mr. Bornmann? Ms. Feingold is going into surgery."

Following the signs, I came to double doors marked No Entry and went in, but when I tiptoed to a door marked surgery and peeked in, it slid open, and in that moment I saw more than I cared to see. And in that moment I prayed as never before, nor since.

This object lying half naked, swathed on one side and hooked to a myriad tubes and gauges is not just some almost dead thing — it's Ruth Feingold, a woman with a name, a woman with memories, a woman with feelings, a woman with extraordinary gifts.

I offered no resistance as Security threw me out. In the waiting room I paced and prayed. Disbelief flooded my brain. Desolation clawed at my heart.

There are people who need her. Let her live.

And she did recover. But I'm not so sure about my own recovery. That was the day I was forced to accept that Ruth's lovely limbs and gracious, enigmatic smile, the way I had known them, were no more. If I was to know her now I would have to look deeper.

But as I made my way back to the car park, the need to pee brought me back from lofty thoughts.

The toilets were barred for the night. Fit to burst, I made for a concrete wall in the shadows, but changed my plan when I noticed the broken lock on the women's toilet.

I eased the door open and stepped inside. Discarded syringes crackled under my feet.

I made my way to the basin and looked in the mirror.

The glass was smeared and broken, and on it someone had scrawled a message, three words daubed in dark lipstick. 'Rocks and currents' it read.

A warning? Regret? A cry for help? Someone's daughter? Someone's sister?

I would never know, but one thing I was sure of was that out of respect for her, whoever she may be, I should leave, and with at least that much decided, I made my way out, shut the door quietly and walked away into the cool evening mist, entirely uncertain what to do next in a world without Ruth

Ruth stayed in hospital for skin grafts. I visited often and we were close — although not in the romantic way.

One dazzling Sunday late in spring, Ruth and I took breakfast alfresco. In the aftermath of surgery Ruth fixated on the elusive notion of destiny. God knows, fate had left its mark on her. The least I could do was to listen as she worked it through.

With croissants and coffee, we sat and talked of kismet, happenstance and fortune, until the nurse came with Ruth's injections.

Ruth smiled at me over the nurse's shoulder, and I looked away as the first needle went in, lest she see me cry. "Rocks and currents," I whispered, and turned to go, but she called me back and said the words back to me in a flat tone; but her eyes told me it was a question.

"Just graffiti," I said.
Chapter five

Ruth

Reminiscing

I'm hovering at the ceiling, Justin, surveying the surgery; then I float down and settle back into the embrace of the anesthetic.

I stir again. Now I'm in the recovery ward.

I wriggle my toes. A ragtag bunch of images rushes in, impressions of familiar things.

I wriggle my fingers. I'm on a conveyor belt, waving to a crowd, people I know.

The advance scouts of reason appear, creeping... thoughts and ideas that I can trust. Then next thing I know, Justin, I'm talking to myself... thoughts bubbling up.

There was that jerk what's-his-name. He walked out without as much as a good-bye. That was bad. Then there was that other guy who just as suddenly walked in.

Doesn't anyone have a name here? Where am I?

I sold my loft in Greenwich Village. How dumb was that? I stood up to my biggest client. Told him he was wrong; brave ... stupid... whatever.

I roll over.

You're a piece of work," I tell myself. "You had your plans, but you went and paddled your canoe in a wild river."

Someone drops a tray and the clatter almost rouses me.

"You've lost lovers and missed opportunities," I say. "You've been petulant and insensitive."

A nurse says my name.

I'm back.
Chapter six

Miriam

Extract from a transcript of interview recorded by Luke Freeman

Combined Allied Intelligence Rabaul November 1945

The day you call the best day of your life: Let's start there.

When the Japanese invaded our island, we were on our plantation.

We?

Michael, Marita and I. We lay low down there on the southeast coast of the Gazelle and did our best not to draw attention to ourselves.

...

And?

One morning, six months into the occupation a tall, straight man, dressed in naval whites strode into our plantation, his face lit by the rays of the rising sun. In less time than it took to blink incredulity away, I was in love.

Seeing me peeping from behind the copra dryer he stopped, removed his cap and introduced himself. "Good morning. I am Lieutenant Rex Davidson of the Royal Australian Navy."

My heart skipped.

Michael crept out. "The Lazar family is honored to meet you," he said. "May I ask why you are here?"

"Oh, this and that; making my way north; having a bit of a look around. It's very important the Japanese don't find out I'm here."

"We will not betray you," my brother said. "Please stop on your way back and share a meal.'

My sister, Marita was preparing pancakes. By the time she emerged from the cookhouse, spatula in hand, blinking in the morning brightness, the man was gone. She was angry with Michael and me but I was angrier with myself, for I had not told him my name.

What was life like?

There was a war and we were lying low. Michael ran the labor line and fomentry and Marita and I ran the office. The war had put an end to the copra trade and we relied on our chickens and goats and vegetable garden to survive.

It's a long way from Ambon to New Britain.

A famine came upon our island, and our parents had to leave. They made their way by prahu from Seram in the Spice Islands to Sorong in Netherlands New Guinea. They traveled by banana boat around the Bird's Head to Manokwari, then across Geelvink Bay, then past the islands of Numfoor and Biak, to Sarmi and Jayapura. From there they hired canoes to take them along the Rai Coast of New Guinea as far as Madang, where they picked up a tramp steamer bound for Rabaul.

How did your parents survive?

A devout Catholic among the Tolai people let them build a hut on his land. They grew their own food and supported themselves hawking trinkets, carvings and snacks in Chinatown. Copra prices were good and Rabaul was awash with cash. My parents saved a little money and started a family. I was born in 1924. We kids grew up with the sights and sounds of the market.

Tell me about the plantation.

We had little and lived frugally, but when the great depression struck, my parents had a stroke of luck. Plantations were going for fire-sale prices, so they scraped up a deposit and bought a clapped out farm run by a drunken Australian who solved his bankruptcy problem by shooting himself. My parents worked hard and made a home, but a profit eluded them.

Dad died of dengue but we hardly had time to mourn his passing, for within a week Mum went down with a fever and passed away two days later. We three took over the plantation and that's where we were, minding our own business and trying to stay out of trouble, when the Japanese invaded.
Chapter seven

Justin

Recollections

Time was when I didn't believe in coincidences. "Let other people marvel," I would say. "No sentient hand is at work. Happenstance. That's the thing."

But I'm not so sure anymore.

That's me, then: to myself, Mr. Not-so-sure; to the Registrar of Births Mrs. Bornmann's baby; and to everybody else, Justin.

I've started many things and finished a few, and along the way I've had my defining moments, but my life is probably best summed up as unremarkable. Except for that moment in my boyhood when destiny handed me the only copy of the Rex File, a collection of papers about Rex Davidson and a hush-hush wartime operation.

As a boy, what I read in the files went over my head. Now, when I read those papers, my hands shake and my eyes fill with tears.

In the years between boyhood and maturity, I would, on occasions, take the Rex File out and admire it. I would smell the pages, and run my fingers over their stiff, yellowed edges. I respected its aura and resented its burden, but one day I picked up the Rex File and read with fresh eyes. It seemed at the time a random act, but now I know otherwise. The more I read, the more compelled I felt to check the accuracy of those documents and fathom the significance of the story they told.

I reckoned I was smart enough to turn myself into a sleuth, so I read up on detective work and set off on a search that became an obsession. My quest took me to Rabaul, where I met Ruth, an encounter that led to a chain of events that changed me.

Rex was a coastwatcher, an intelligence officer in the Pacific war in the 1940s. It was hair-raising work. Of all the amazing stories about Rex, the one I'm about to tell is the weirdest: He saw an angel. And he was on the nest when it happened.

Rex's angel had a five o'clock shadow and no wings. And he stunk of sweat. Not much of an angel. But at least he was robed in white cloth, if a dirty, ragged laplap qualifies.

In the three tumultuous years from January 1942, when the Imperial Japan occupied most of the Indo-Pacific, to 1945 when the Allies drove them out, amazing events took place in the great banana-shaped island of New Britain north of New Guinea — events driven by extraordinary people and maybe even angels; but, "Not convinced," I hear you say. "Stories grow with the retelling," and with that, you're not Robinson Crusoe. Even I sometimes wonder. The story is what we need, if there's to be solid ground, and by 'story' I mean the facts. Such as celibacy. Rex was never celibate, although some of those who hadn't been up in the bush with him said he was. He knew his way around women. And it's important to understand too what a good bushman Rex was. They called him 'Mr. Miracle' when he called in air strikes and supply drops, but most of what he did was just plain hard slog, following the rules of bush survival day after day.

In this his weirdest story, however, he was, as I explained, on the nest, and the angel had caught him at it. "I don't need angels," I hear you say. And with that, you're in good company, because I don't need angels is exactly what Rex said, just before he asked the angel his name.

After that, Rex said one more thing: "You've spoiled the moment," he complained.

For a deep man Rex could be thick. Everyone knows that's what angels do. If you're an angel and you're not spoiling the moment, then you're not portending, and that's your job; so it's worse than the mailman arriving with no letters.

A poor sense of timing goes with spoiling the moment, and Rex's angel ran to type. With the enthusiastic co-operation of Miriam Lazar, Rex was about to get his rocks off when the angel walked in on them. Rex came with a groan, angel or no angel, so the story goes, and I see no reason Miriam should lie about that.

The angel smiled, and a more enigmatic smile you'll never see, so Miriam said; an amused, indulgent smile with a hint of impatience and maybe a touch of envy.

"When you're done, we'll get started," the angel said. "We've an island to deliver."
Chapter eight

Ruth

Recollections

The doctors want to do brain tests, Justin, but they're wasting their time. My mind is clear and I can prove it. Look at these notes, Justin, about the day I met Hashi.

I took a shower, put on fresh lipstick and went to the lounge. Three backpackers, a Papua Niuginian, a white guy and a fit-looking Asian guy, invited me to join them.

The first two raised their beers in welcome, but the third, the Asian guy, stood up and bowed.

"My name," he said, "is Kazuo Hashimoto."

I liked what I saw. The man whose hand I was shaking had the perfectly-proportioned build of a fighter pilot. And he had good taste. Dressed in a bush vest with a jungle t-shirt, cargo pants and trail boots, Hashimoto was a question waiting to be asked.

"My friends call me Hashi," he said. "I'm an unemployed forester."

I smiled, he smiled, but so transfixed was I by his handsome face and mellow voice; I didn't let go of his hand.

Hashi was earnest but not intense. Dazzled by his ready smile and open face, his rugged features and skin like smooth parchment, I leant close and we began to talk.

Hashi wasn't a one-way street. He was full of ideas, stories and opinions, but that didn't make him unwilling to listen. Whenever I chimed in he hung on every word.

A smile pasted on my face, I excused myself and went to the rest room. Peering into the mirror, I became the horse whisperer, my own alter ego, speaking firmly to my reflection, as I tried to rein in rearing feelings and bridle them with reason─and failed, my private school manners and city street smarts insufficient to keep me from falling.

Contrite, I rejoined the backpackers, overcome with the desire to cup a hand around the firm arc of the seat of Hashi's jeans, and feel under his shirt to stroke his abs. The battle within was lost.

All the more embarrassing, you were there and saw it all, Justin. When Hashi bowed and took my hand, you saw me there, gaping like a schoolgirl, right? You don't have to spare my feelings, not after all that's happened.

But there was more to the evening than Hashi and me. You entertained us all with stories about the coastwatcher Rex Davidson and his secret operation behind the lines in the war. You were a good listener too. You smiled at our banter and joined in the laughter as we babbled about the fun we were going to have.

When the backpackers wandered off, I grabbed the opportunity to throw myself at Hashi.

"I'm just a rich girl trying to cram as much fun as I can into three weeks," I said. "The others are looking for adventure, but I just want to forget New York for a while. You though, Hashi, you're different. Why did you come to the island?" I asked.

"I'm here to retrace the footsteps of my grandfather, who fought on this island," Hashi explained. "He was a naval officer in charge of an outpost. He and the entire South Seas Imperial Force plunged the local people into a war not of their making. I am a modern man, but still I am Japanese. We go on about apologizing. It's our way. I'm here to find the descendants of those who helped my grandfather, and apologize," he said. "But now, if you'll excuse me, nature calls."

Hashi was only gone for two minutes, but that was long enough for me to rope you into the affair, Justin."

"I think I love him," I said.

And you said, "When you find what you're looking for grab it with both hands."

I went on about losing my independence, but you gave me no sympathy. "Ruth, you're deceiving yourself," you said.

"I am not open to influence," I said.

And you leant forward, elbows on the table, head cocked, one eyebrow raised and said, "Nonsense. You can't wait for him to ask you to go with him."

That's when the claws came out. I called you a meddler, but you defused me with an apology and kept right on going, you sly fox.

"Take the leap while the magic's there."

I know nothing about roughing it."

"Excuses."

"All I've brought is my bikini."

"Don't die wondering."

I know you took a peek at Hashi and me through the potted palms when we cozied up on the verandah, but I didn't care. I was preoccupied with when, where and how to get Hashi into bed.

"Now, or on the trail?" I wondered. To a five-star girl, doing it in a sleeping bag didn't sound too good, but when Hashi suddenly stood up, stretched, yawned and said he was turning in, the question became academic, at least for the moment.

"Thanks for a great evening," he said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to look over some maps and write up my diary. See you at breakfast."
Chapter nine

Justin

Reminiscing

I avoid bars. The camaraderie makes me lonely. But what's a man to do?

So, I'm breaking my own rule and I'm in the lounge of the Rabaul Hostel, and, as I expected, I'm not cheered by the music and laughter, so I sip my drink and while away the time thinking of a story about each of the guests gathered there.

A bunch of backpacker, a girl and three guys, catch my attention. One of the guys and the girl have eyes only for each other. He's a short handsome man with Asian features, fit, well-muscled, and she's an attractive young woman with long auburn hair.

They move to the next table, the better to get to know each other. I eavesdrop shamelessly and learn that his name's Hashi and her name is Ruth. He's Japanese and she's American. He's a forester and she's a stockbroker. It pays to eavesdrop.

Their tête-à-tête progresses and they draw closer together.

Ruth takes Hashi's hand and they go outside to watch the moon rise.

And I, not willing to miss anything, follow.

Hashi does most of the talking. He pauses once in a while and asks a question, but Ruth gives only short replies. He tells her he's come to the island to retrace the steps of his grandfather, who led patrols on the island while serving in the Japanese Imperial South Seas Force during the war in the Pacific.

He says he's about to set out on a trek to retrace his grandfather's steps, using the old man's diary and maps. Juicy stuff, but there's more: His grandfather's diary mentions a coastwatcher he captured, and Hashi wants to find out about him.

Hashi and Ruth rejoin the others in the bar and I think I've lost my chance to get to know Ruth, but they turn up again the next evening with their backpacker friends and after they've had a few drinks they invite me to join them.

Over round upon round of drinks I tell them about the intelligence officer Luke Freeman, and how he combed through classified documents and recorded eyewitness accounts to compile the story of Rex's deeds, and then had to steal the files he created to save them from being burnt.

They laugh at the story of the widow passing the documents on to me. They shake their heads at my youthful neglect of the papers. And when I confess to overhearing that Hashi's pilgrimage connects with my own, a murmur of astonishment runs through the group.

I don't have to buy another drink all evening. The backpackers ply me with schooners and snacks, and I tell them everything I know about Rex. They order steak sandwiches, chips and salad, and I keep on talking, snacking, drinking, and then talking and drinking some more. They love to hear about Rex's girlfriend, Miriam, and when I begin the story of how those two met, they edge so close I can scarcely move.
Chapter ten

Ruth

Recollections

Hashi and I made our way to Jacquinot Bay to catch the morning flight to Rabaul, but the plane was delayed, so, as the humidity rose we waited, and having nothing better to do, I checked out my fellow members of the legion of the bored bunched under the single remaining serviceable ceiling fan.

A lady carrying a rough-woven _bilum_ handbag, its gaudy colors and coarse weave contrasting oddly with the crisp lines of her tropical suit, made her way to my side. She was not young, but her hair was braided and she was elegantly made up, with dark lipstick, perfectly applied. You notice things like that in the tropics and my mind buzzed with questions.

"Young lady," the old woman said, "I don't know why you are staring. My name is Miriam Lazar and I am nobody special. But I am a good judge of character, and I sense goodwill in you."

Hashi bowed and stepped back, but I, more deferent than bold, took a step towards her.

Miriam took my hand firmly, clasped her other hand over my forearm and shook hands with a gentle motion. "I have heard of a young man has come to our island retracing the footsteps of his grandfather," she said. "If this is the man, would you please introduce me?"

"What you have heard is true. Meet my friend, Kazuo Hashimoto."

"I am delighted," Miriam said. "I did meet your grandfather, but not in pleasant circumstances. He served on the other side of the island. What do you expect to find on this side?"

"We've already been to the other side." Hashi explained. "We made a side trip over here to enjoy a little more time together."

"I see." Miriam said. "Enjoyment is good."

A breeze as short-lived as it was welcome skittered in from the bay, full of promise until it came up against the waves of heat rising from the strip. The fronds of the coconut palms riffed and rippled, only to fall limp again in the languid air.

"Some couples grow into love," Miriam said.

I shaped to reply, but Miriam pressed a finger to my lips with one hand and with the other drew a tattered photo from her _bilum_. "This is my coastwatcher," she said. "It's been more than fifty years."

I saw a man in an Australian Navy officer's uniform; a young man in the vigor of life.

"Rex?"

"Rex."

"Was he more than a coastwatcher?"

Miriam stepped nearer. "To me? Oh yes."

"I want to know him."

Miriam laughed. "When the enemy caught Rex, my sister and I saved him. After that, high command airlifted him off the island."

"Did you ever see him again?"

"I see him all the time. After the war, my sister and I started a school at the mission at Vunapope, and he wrote to us. When we grew old, the nuns sent us to their convent in Sydney, and..."

"And what?"

"And I have this photograph," she said.

I began to weep.

"Tears?"

"One day," I said, "a single photo may be all that bears testimony to what Hashi and I have."

Miriam smiled and once more, delicately pressed a finger to my lips.

"It is the conceit of the young to see everything as about themselves," she said. "And that is as it should be, because although everything has been said and done, it has yet to be said and done afresh, here and now."

Cascading feelings swept me into the photo and I fell for the handsome commando as though I had walked the misty trails of the island with him.

Hashi, who was usually talkative, had lapsed silent.

"Hey, help me out here," I said. "First I fall in love with you, then I see nothing more than this man's face in a photo and again I lose control ... me, the cool chick, the money girl."

Miriam laughed. "I know how strongly I felt about men I wanted more of," she said. "There was Rex, and there was Tuga Bububu Uru too. Him I could have stood more of. And the pilot, Breeze Champion ─ he could have left his boots under my bed any time. They were all real men, Ruth, true men, and I came to love them all. Stick around on this island and you may meet them."

"I told you not to bother going back to New York," Hashi said, and poked me in the ribs.

Now it was my turn to say nothing. I bathed in Miriam's presence and would have stayed longer, but they called boarding.

"Are you on the flight, Miriam?" I asked.

"I have memories to chase down," she said.

Hashi dashed straight up onto the plane, but I paused at the foot of the stairs and looked back. With the sun on the amber skin of her lightly lined face, Miriam looked radiant in a way I had never seen in an old person. "We're at the Community Hostel," I yelled.

Miriam slipped past the barrier and hurried across the tarmac. Ignoring the whine of the turbines, she thrust into my hand the envelope with the portrait of Rex.

"Now I share you with this Rex guy," Hashi said, his eyes on his boots.

I held the photo close and said nothing.

Hashi wanted to keep on about it, but I wasn't listening. My mother's voice had drowned his out. " _Oy, gevalt_! Such a daughter. In New York, obsessed; but here, enchanted."

Then there was my own voice, whispered and insistent.

When I was fifteen, Grandma Naomi told me about a woman who befriended her in the concentration camp. "Nice Lutheran girl," she said. "Took care of disabled kids, and when the Nazis started taking them away she spoke out. When the air raids started we were all starving. I was like a rag doll. One winter's evening she gave me her soup: just potato broth, but enough to pull me through. Next morning, I found her dead in her bunk. When the war ended I went to family in New York, married a good Jewish man, and raised your mother. The rest you know, so tell me why we are here, Ruth... in New York... or anywhere?"

Grandma was a bloodhound when chasing down an idea.

"Let me put it another way," she said. "Where are you? And what are you doing that counts?"

Your folks were born average, was how Rabbi Brasch explained my parents when preparing me for Bat Mitzva. It was his way of asking me to be patient. "Good people, your folks," he said.

Looking back, I believe the rabbi knew how much my parents had to put up with. I was precocious, and I stuck my oar in everywhere, and Grandma Naomi, smart, bored and tough, sprayed our apartment all day, every day, with machine gun bursts of cynical commentary. My parents had no peace, but I was too self-absorbed to realize.

Precocious, I said. Well, maybe a little nuts too. On my eighteenth birthday I announced that I embodied Mary of Bethany.

My parents blanched. "So now you're the woman who anointed the false messiah's feet and dried them with her hair?"

Father stormed out. Mother broke down in tears. Grandma Naomi smiled.

The tension eased when I went away to college. My parents could rest from my questioning, and with me no longer there as a foil for Naomi's mind games, they could protect themselves with silence.

Life in college and graduate school came as naturally to me as breathing. I aced every class and I was a good networker; and my CV was full of honorary and short-term appointments.

An investment industry scout tracked me down and I ended up in stockbroking. I liked the work and cottoned on quickly. I made many friends and worked hard. I was young and successful, and I took it all for granted.

It was the nineteen nineties and women in management were jostling for room at the top. Big firms mulled over ways to improve the gender balance, and young female up-and-comers were all the rage. A reporter labeled me the most promising young woman on Wall Street and the New York Times ran a feature on me in the business section.

Cut to my vacation and the fateful day that ended it. My friends died and I lost twenty percent of my skin. Within hours, news networks had the story. When journalists realized an attractive, upmarket young woman had become a poignant tragique, they went nuts, and I snowballed from curiosity to phenomenon.
Africa
Chapter eleven

Ruth

Recollections

On those precious afternoons, Justin, when a breeze springs up as the sun goes down over Lake Tanganyika, I pour a glass of vermouth with ice, take a seat on the verandah and wait to see which episode of my journey will bubble to the surface. Then, as Africa puts on her ebony lipstick and black pearls, I begin to write.

When I recovered from my burns I returned to New York, made calls to a few Wall Street buddies, and with their help set up the New Start Foundation for the Protection of Orphans. That was the easy part. Now the question was, "Where to next?"

I believed New Start could do something to help kids who had lost parents in the fighting that had raged throughout Central Africa. An opportunity came up to lead a delegation to Rwanda and I jumped at the chance, but the 'blood metals' racket was on the rise and certain key people who didn't want outsiders around slammed the door, so we turned our attention to Burundi.

On my first visit the Burundian officials booked me into the Hotel Club du Lac Tanganyika. Over the next two years I visited often and spent day after day holed up in negotiations with ministers and officials. Soldiers stood guard at every entrance and gun-toting bodyguards prowled the corridors.

It was tense work and on the weekends I needed to escape. Of a Saturday, right after breakfast, I'd hire a car and head for the countryside with a couple of bodyguards.

I came to love the rolling hills of Burundi. I visited festivals and wandered through bazaars, and before long I could speak Kirundi, the local language.

Our New Start delegation and the local officials finally hammered out an agreement. At the signing ceremony, the national negotiators sprang a surprise and invited me to stay on as co-director of the orphanage. I leapt up and danced in a circle around the delegates, chanting my acceptance in Kirundi. The officials whooped and joined in, the tails of their Armani suits flapping as we snaked our way around the conference table. Then the other delegates, white American males all, joined in, shamefaced, and tagged along like a wobbly hookup of cabooses.

A call from the President's secretary next morning roused me from my bed, regretting the many cocktails of the previous evening.

" _Pardonne-moi s'il te plait._ So early."

I grabbed the cup from my bedside table, took a sip of water and splashed the rest on my face.

"How can I help?" I croaked through cracked lips.

"A massacre up-country. We have as many orphans as you can take."

Officials in a convoy of armored vehicles rushed me to the Itaba county hospital in Gitega Province. A lean, flustered woman who looked as though she's not slept for a week led us past a makeshift morgue filled with bodies lying limbs askew in wheel barrows and on palliasses and benches, to a ward overflowing with bandaged, distressed children, picked up a wailing toddler and placed her in my arms.

The Secretary for Welfare edged to my side. "You see," she whispered. "Children ... and the paint on the new center is not yet dry."

I smiled and handed the child over to her. "I have three weeks of meetings in New York."

"But Ma'mselle..."

"I'll be back."

New York schmoo york. I counted the days until my return flight.

I reached the orphanage late on the evening of the first day of September, 2002. Three flights in twenty-three hours, but the resident rooster gave his full-throated all to rouse me before dawn.

I psyched myself into the shower, and when done I toweled off babbling like a self-help guru. "Ready to roll babe," I said. "Get to know the kids, the staff, and ... _who's that at the window?_

In the filtered light of the frosted louvers loomed the outline of a man's massive bearded head, topped with the kind of beret worn by the FDD, Forces pour la Défense de la Démocratie.

I clutched the towel to my breast and drew back.

The man smashed a slat and pushed one arm through.

Where the hell is Michel?

"Ma'mselle!"

A bare-chested man in a dirty white laplap stepped from the shower cubicle.

We locked eyes.

What the ...

In his right hand he held a tapered machete, gripping it so firmly the muscles of his arm stood up in sweaty relief in the steamy air. The blade glinted sharp and hard in the stippled light, but I was not in the least afraid.

"Don't worry," he said. His English was accented but not in the French way. A sense of peace wrapped around me.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"My name is Tuga Bububu Uru, and I'm here to help."

A stream of curses interrupted our _tête-à-tête._

"Let's help him bleed some more," Tuga growled.

He grasped the man by the collar, dragged him through the jagged space, flipped him over and shook the weapon from his grasp.

"He's high on kola!" I yelled.

Tuga crooked his arm around the intruder's neck and pulled him close. "Leave now or die," he whispered, then, lifting him by collar and belt, he forced the man back out the window.

The man fled, trailing blood.

"I could do with a coffee," I said. "Will you join me for breakfast?"
Chapter twelve

Michel

Recollections

My name is Michel Twaglimana, and it is my honor to be Ruth Feingold's personal assistant at the Active World children's center.

I was beside myself. The TV people were due to arrive, but Ma'mselle had only just gone for her shower. I hovered at the bathroom door with her coffee, hoping to move things along.

You know, there are so-called intellectuals in Bujumbura who say I am an Uncle Tom, the way I wait on Ruth as if she were some _mem sahib_. They can say what they like. I wait on her because it assists her to help the children. I serve her well because I respect her. And I address her as _Ma'mselle_ to thumb my nose at them.

Ma'mselle's bathroom is a modest brick enclosure joined to the house by a breezeway. The single outstanding luxury is the full-length mirror. The first thing Ma'mselle did when she moved in was attach to the upper-right corner of it a small blue and white sticker with the name 'Rex' in bold red letters.

There is one other decoration. Nestled among jars of cream and tubes of make-up on the plain varnished dresser, is a framed photo of Ma'mselle with a young Japanese man.

I know Ma'mselle's routine by heart. She will look at the photo as she dries between her toes. "Hashi, you spunk," she will say. "Hold my hand today."

Today, however, Ma'mselle was in a rush. Her bare arms snaked around the door and a wet hand grabbed the coffee, and moments later she appeared, wearing only a towel and breezed past.

Ma'mselle chose a loose, long-sleeved jungle-striped blouse that covered the scars on her arms, and a mid-calf skirt that covered the burn marks on her legs.

"Michel, to think I might have spent my life behind a computer and ended up in Long Island Cemetery," she said, but before I could reply we heard tires crunch on the gravel driveway.

The TV crew carried in armloads of equipment.

"Ma'mselle," I called. "They are turning your living room into a studio. It is busier than Bujumbura bazaar. You have all the time in the world."

But I need not have troubled myself, for at that moment Ma'mselle appeared, ready to take on the world.

The director wasted no time. "I'm Sal Hynes and this is Tash Sanders," he said. "Why don't you and Tash get acquainted while I see to some technical details?"

"It's an honor to meet you," Ms. Sanders said. "May I call you Ruth? I'll say where we are and why we're here, and move on to ask about your adopted children; then we'll go with a roving camera sequence in the memorial garden. We'll edit in footage of the official opening last week with President Nkurunzia, along with footage of the orphanage, and do a voiceover later."

"I'm the aid worker, you're the TV guy," Ma'mselle said.

"You're hot, honey," Ms. Sanders said. "All over the world people are talking about you."

Ms. Sanders straightened her jacket. "Welcome to the Active World Orphanage in Burundi, Africa," she began. "I'm with Ruth Feingold, fund raiser, aid worker and the winner of this year's World Compassion award. Ruth is an executive member of New Start Foundation for the Protection of Orphans and co-director of this the newest of the Foundation's children's centers.

"For ten years Ruth built a career in the investment industry before turning her talents to aid work. She's been in Africa six years and speaks the local language. Ruth Feingold, thanks for having us."

"Thanks Natasha, and a warm welcome to all your viewers."

"Ruth, what brought you to Burundi?"

"A vacation, a trip to the Pacific island of New Britain, which turned out nothing like I expected," Ma'mselle explained. "I fell in love with a handsome forester, went trekking with him, and capped it all off with a big, nasty surprise that left him dead and me with burn marks down one side of my body," Ma'mselle said.

"Six months in the Burns Unit gave me plenty of time to follow the news. At that time, strife between the Tutsis and Hutus in Central Africa was making headlines. I had lots of time to think. And think I did, about the thousands of kids who survive, orphaned and traumatized. "When I was well enough to travel, I flew back to New York and set up the New Start Foundation. It took off, and now there are children's centers like this one."

"Let's introduce viewers to the family," Tash said, "these four sweet kids you're raising. First up, can you tell us who this young lady is?"

"This is Miriam, my eldest," Ma'mselle explained. "She's Rwandan, from the Hutu tribe." She drew the girl close. "Miriam arrived with no ID and she couldn't tell us her name," she said. "I called her Miriam, after a friend."

Tash bobbed down to talk to the younger children. "Who are these fine boys?"

"You mean these two rascals?" Ma'mselle said. She pulled them into a group hug with Miriam. "Dan and Alois are twins from the Malawian countryside," she explained. "AIDS wiped out their village"

"And who's this, who wants to hog the camera?"

"This is my four-year-old. His parents were killed in the fighting in Sierra Leone when he was two. He has no memory of his family."

"And his name?"

"He's Hashi Junior, after 'Hashi' Hashimoto, the most romantic man I ever met," Ma'mselle said. "A good friend whose life was cut short."

"The explosion again, Ruth?"

"Yes."

Tash handed the microphone to an assistant and put her arm around Ma'mselle. "I'm glad Hashi's name lives on," she said. Then she took Ma'mselle by the arm and walked with her to the little park by the jungle gym.

"What's this, Ruth?"

"It's a memorial garden," Ma'mselle said. "There's a pagoda, a fish pond, a Japanese bridge and a tiny grotto with a waterfall."

"And what's this?" asked Tash.

"It's a moon path," Ma'mselle said. "Shoes off!"

Tash kicked her sandals off and took a couple of steps. "These tiny stones hurt!"

"You get used to it," Ma'mselle said. "I practised walking on popcorn."

Tash sat down with Ruth in the garden. "Pagoda, bridge, moon path... you're nothing if not different, Ruth," she said.

Hashi Junior ran to Ma'mselle and climbed onto her lap.

"That's the perfect picture to finish with," Ms. Sanders said. "Tell Me Now has been speaking with Ruth Feingold at Active World Orphanage in Burundi. Located in the countryside near the capital Bujumbura, the center takes children from all over sub-Saharan Africa. Ruth is sending a message through these kids, and when Ruth speaks people listen. I've been listening. How about you? Ruth Feingold, thank you."

The TV people left quickly, looking to make the early flight. I prepared tea and sandwiches for Ma'mselle, then went to the bathroom and took the framed photo from the dresser. I polished it until the glass shone, then set it carefully back in place. If Ma'mselle couldn't be with Hashi, she had every right to remember him well. I cleaned the mirror and carefully dried the sign with Rex's name.
The mountains
Chapter thirteen

Ruth

Recollections

The beginning of my trek with Hashi

I stretched, yawned and sat up. The room was redolent with a subtle, fruity aroma that took my unguarded mind to good times and romantic places. I rubbed my eyes.

"Hashi, the sun's not up and you're brewing coffee."

"Not just any coffee, my love: Sihereni Estate, PNG Highlands; the best Arabica in the world."

Busy with his primus, Hashi seemed oblivious to my puffy eyes and messy hair. He handed me my coffee and sat down on the bed. "Got a backpack?" he asked.

I brushed a wayward tress from my eyes and took a sip of coffee to kick-start my brain. "A Tuscany leather overnight bag," I managed to say.

Hashi raised his eyebrows. "Trail boots?" he asked.

"Reeboks and some very cool Navajo flats," I said, and when Hashi held his face in his hands and sighed I thought I'd give him a bit more to bemoan.

"That's about it for footwear," I said brightly. "Unless you count my slim-strap havaianas with the signature textured footpad."

"Okay, now I know you're yanking my chain," he said. "Whatever. I'll buy what you need on the way to the airport," he said.

I shrugged. "Not in Manhattan anymore," I said. "But since we live in a topsy turvy world that pays a stockbroker more than a _chômeur_ , I'll pay for the air tickets."

I leant close, hoping for a kiss, but damn you Justin, you chose that moment to knock. Maybe the aroma of the coffee woke you, or maybe you planned it that way, but when Hashi opened the door and you peeked and saw me straightening my shirt, you smiled like the sly old fox that you are and I had to overcome the impulse to leap across the room and slap you.

"If I'm not interrupting," you said, "I'd like to talk a little business before you go."

Hashi shrugged and stood aside. I pulled the sheet around me.

"I've seen you poring over maps and an old book," you said.

"The book is my grandfather's war diary," Hashi said. "The maps show where he was stationed and the routes of the patrols he led. You and everyone else know I'm here to retrace his steps."

That's when you handed Hashi the papers.

"This is a bundle of documents called the Rex File," you said, "military intelligence documents, some written by men who wanted to kill your grandfather."

We stopped at a store on the way to the airport. Hashi dashed in and came back with a bush hat, a backpack and a pair of combat boots, all of it for me.

That afternoon we flew to Hoskins and the next day we made our way to the road head and hired a motor canoe.

As the canoe sped eastward, the ripples marching in from the Bismarck Sea made for tough going, and we held on white-knuckled as the canoe bucked and bumped for almost two hours. Finally, mercifully, the canoeman reached his sighting mark where the space between the dark crags and the hills of the escarpment narrows, and turned for the run in to the jetty at Walo Beach. Beautiful cloud-wreathed peaks towered inland, but the only high things this New York girl wanted to see were the mist-wreathed skyscrapers of Manhattan on a sunny January morning.

A hire truck picked us up, and we rattled off through the kunai grass. We bumped up the track to the first rise, rounded a corner and came to a clear patch at the top of the ridge with views to the coast.

To this day, etched in my mind is a color photograph of the magnificent view down to Kimbe Bay, but at that moment the beauty was lost on me.

Hashi," I moaned. "I need a break,"

"So soon?"

"Still stiff from the canoe. I need to stretch. Need to pee. Need to get cool. Need coffee."

Primal nature trumps noble sensibility every time.

The driver pulled over and Hashi got busy with the primus.

"Hashi," I said. "you are truly a champion. You can produce a first-class espresso any time, any place with your moka pot."

"Twice your luck half mine," he replied. "A rich and successful career girl has broken her schedule to come to this out of the way place with me."

"We're doing this together," I said.

Hashi shrugged. "I guess scuba diving has become a bit passé."

"Thanks for the pit stop," I said. "A much-needed pee in the bush, a great view and a fabulous cup of coffee will make this girl happy every time.

"Pleased to have been of service, Milady."

"Now let me see if I can work you out, Forester," I said. "Basically, you're an unemployed wanderer. After this, you'll fly off to some other coastline, God knows where. And as for me, I'll go back to my life of shopping, restaurants and clubs in New York."

"Someone has to do it," Hashi replied.

"Don't think you can dismiss me, Hashi," I said.

"Sorry."

"You know, you are kind of pushy," I said. "I feel pressured to be who you want me to be."

"Who you are is only 'you' until you make other choices," he said, and at that I flared up.

"Don't try to blow smoke up my ass, Hashi," I snapped. "You want to talk about me and not us. Okay then. Let's put the spotlight on you for a moment."

Hashi looked up with a puzzled expression, and I grabbed the opening.

"Why are you here?" I said. "This place doesn't matter. What can you find here that could possibly throw light on anything?"

"I'm spending a few months looking back," he said. "Anything wrong with that?"

I gave him my best blank look.

"This pilgrimage is more than a walk through history," he said. "I'm looking to understand the hope and despair of the people whom destiny drove here. They were alive, Ruth, so alive. Boredom, terror, frustration, depression... whatever the feeling, they experienced it here, and just as it would have with us had we been in their place, their fight to survive brought out the worst and the best."

"I've fallen in love with a dreamer," I snorted.

Hashi looked at me, head tilted, one eyebrow raised and I knew I had to speak before he spouted some aphorism that would make me want to choke him.

"I'd like to find something here too," I said. "But I'm not sure what."

Hashi's brow furrowed. "We'll change nothing if we don't give it a go, Ruth."

"Are you talking about becoming a better person, Hashi?"

"I'm talking about a better world," he said. "I want to save the forests."

"Big ambition," I said. "Why not start small? Everyone from Singapore to Shanghai wants the timber on this island, and here you are, Johnny-on-the-spot."

"Ruth, I haven't been idle. Talks with the mountain villages are all arranged."

"Talks?"

"Yes, Ruth. Base data stuff mainly. To see how things worldwide play out here."

"Big picture," I huffed, and whipped my compact out. "Vague, too," I said, fixing my lipstick.

"You have to stand for something," Hashi replied.

"Are you talking about me?" I said.

I rounded my bottom lip, checking for smudges. "Being rich doesn't mean I don't care," I said, but Hashi was ready with another of his rejoinders.

"Where you stand counts too, Ruth," he said.

"Hashi, what in the world are you talking about?" I huffed, and when I saw that he had nothing to say, I sat down on a rock and, without so much as a sigh, brushed the hem of my shirt and silently laid out my makeup on a stump, as though I were some bush diva preparing for a rustic performance.

That smoked him out.

"That stuff is your armor," he said. "You believe your looks give you influence."

"Buddy," I said. "New York is ninety per cent front and ten per cent talent. Without my looks Brand Ruth is nothing."

"You'll stick with the armor, then?" Hashi said.

"A great lipstick serves a girl well in defense and attack," I sniffed.

"Let's see that," Hashi said, reaching out.

I handed him my lipstick.

"Hey," he said. "This is expensive stuff!"

The upward curves of his eyebrows brought to mind the Pont Marie in Paris, a more light-hearted, more amorous companion, and a less confronting vacation than this one was turning out to be.

"It's _le rouge à lèvres bon march,_ 'lipstick for poor travelers' "

Hashi took the tube from me, twirled it between thumb and forefinger and examined it with a grave stare that annoyed the hell out of me.

"You buy it in dime stores," I snapped.

Hashi searched my face with a puzzled puppy look.

"STOCKbroker, RICH girl, EXpensive LIPstick," I chanted. "Learnt it in the schoolyard, didn't you, pal? No facts, just prejudice and slogans."

If my puzzled pup had a tail, it would have been between his legs, and now that my talkative boyfriend was lost for words, it was time for me to surrender strength and shower him gently with forgiveness. I mean, what's the good of winning if you lose everything?

"Hashi, let's leave off with this," I said. "If I wanted to, I could shoot down every one of the stereotypes and theories behind which you hide. But that's not what I want for us."

"I'm listening," he said.

"I want to love you, not argue with you. You've seen more in me than anyone. Think about that. C'mon, show me the Hashi smile," I said, but I never heard his answer, because at that moment the driver appeared, jiggling the car keys.

Hashi helped me with my pack "Next stop Kokiso, Grandad's forward base," he said. "It's a steep climb."

"You look a bit tired," I said, with a smile cool enough to fool a cat.

"Meaning?" he said.

"Meaning... I may have to pull you through."
Chapter fourteen

Rex

Extract from a transcript of a recording Combined Allied Intelligence

Operation Little Bull informal interim debrief Townsville September 1944

When the Territory Administration released us patrol officers to join the war effort, I put my hand up for the Navy. They sent me for training as a clearance diver, but after three weeks watching me surface ashen faced and spluttering, the instructor said I didn't belong underwater and sent me to have a chat with the commander. He made some calls and a few days later a man who wouldn't tell me his name turned up dockside and invited me to Townsville for a talk with the commander of a shadowy outfit called the Coastwatchers.

The rooms of the old paneled mansion that served as Coastwatchers HQ were cavernous and dark and smelled of resin and varnish. The commander's polished mahogany desk was finely crafted and behind it sat a tall, lean man of regal bearing, his fine features pale in the wan glow of a tiffany lamp.

"Lieutenant," he said, "you're an old hand in the Territory. You know how to lead and you're at home in the bush." He paused, swiveled to look at the lamp and then swiveled back to peer once more at me across the desk. "Something else they tell me," he went on, "is that you know when to speak and when to hold your tongue." He looked me straight in the eye. "You'll understand then if I dispense with protocol and speak man to man... in absolute confidence."

Without waiting for a reply the commander slid a small wooden box marked Perlas across the polished surface of his desk and flicked it open.

"Cigar?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

But I saw no cigar. Just a tiny electronic device nestled in shredded paper. A trickle of sweat ran down my back.

"It's the new X-crystal," the commander announced, eyes shining. "Think of it, Rex. Coastwatchers in a huge early-warning radio network, from Timor to Noumea. It's my dream, Rex, and it's taking shape even as we speak."

Oh God, I have joined the secret squirrel club.

"My coastwatchers will have the new AWA 3BZ transmitters fitted with this little quartz crystal tuned to the X frequency in the six megahertz band," the commander explained.

"Surely you're not saying this little X gadget will win the war, Sir."

"First, this crystal will turn the tide, Rex. Then high command will win the war."

"Sir, I'm not technical."

"I'm asking you to use it, Rex. Understanding it can wait."

"I'll need a signals expert."

"Hold your horses, there's more: the new rhombic antenna for a start." The commander was as exuberant and conspiratorial as a schoolboy who has just discovered invisible ink, and he was starting to get through to me. "It's bloody heavy—the wire coils weigh as much as two bags of wheat. Set it up in the shape of a baseball diamond and presto, you have a high-quality, untraceable signal, good in all weather conditions."

The commander held my gaze with a look as stern as it was sympathetic. "The old Blue Book has been replaced by the Red Book," he continued. "All the latest on how to get through to high command when you're out in enemy territory—new call signs... codes... maps... co-ordinates... technical notes—everything. We're going to win, Rex, and I have a part for you to play."

"Where, Sir?"

"Familiar turf, Rex."

"New Britain?"

"Exactly," the commander said. "Your fallen island. I want you to go over there and sniff around," the commander said.

He unrolled a map on his desk. "You'll be alone, with no radio. Get as close to Rabaul as you can. There are Chinese refugees at Adler Bay. They may be willing to be our eyes and ears."

"I've heard the natives are rock solid, Commander."

"There's a lot of scuttlebutt in wartime. Find out who's for us and who's wavering. Report back on that, and on what you learn about getting ashore by dinghy, caching supplies and bush operations. I want to send teams to cover the whole island. Are you up for it?"

"Absolutely. After what I've seen today, this may be my last chance to run around the bush fancy free before things get too technical."

"When you're done, get your arse out of there. Put a foot wrong and your neck will feel the edge of a Samurai sword. Here's a blank supply order with my signature on it. Get whatever you need. You go in July. I hope you like Yanks because you'll be sharing a wardroom for a couple of weeks underwater with a bunch of them. Be nice. They'll be risking their lives for you.

I conducted the reconnaissance and returned to Moresby to await my orders. Pacing the floor of the safe house, I had ample time to lament my lot as a deniable asset. Three weeks later Coastwatch Command ordered me to report to headquarters, so I booked a seat on Pamela, the shot-up bomber that plied the daily run to Townsville.

The commander pumped my hand. "Good to see you back, Rex: a successful mission behind the lines. And you flew here on Pamela. That alone should earn you a medal."

"Once is enough," I said.

The commander smiled and walked to the wall cabinet.

"Look here," he said. "I've a bottle of brandy. A good nip will relax you for the return flight.

He poured two glasses, offered a toast to victory and sauntered back to his desk. "Are you familiar with my horned friend?" he asked. He took a children's book from his drawer and handed it to me, drawing attention to a cute little bull pictured on the cover. "A docile fellow," he said. "Whenever they would put him in the bullring he would just sit and sniff the señoritas' bouquets."

I waited, confident that when the commander had exhausted the joke he'd explain.

"I have named your operation Little Bull," he said. "You will form a team by that name and infiltrate New Britain. You will have no occasion for confrontation because you will avoid detection. Secrete your team in some suitable place where you can keep an eye on the sea lanes south and east out of Rabaul. Enjoy the view and the holiday but don't daydream. Anything that moves at sea or in the sky, report it immediately."

He fleshed out the details. The first part sounded pretty good, a couple of weeks' voyage on a submarine. After that, it was up to me. High command wanted me set up, covert, secure and transmitting, within a week of going ashore.

I had plenty of time to contemplate the challenge as I winged my way back to Port Moresby, once more entrusting my life to the luck and skill of the edgy, white-knuckled aircrew whose lamentable duty it was to fly Pamela.

Little Bull was a desperate throw of the dice. The risks did not bear thinking about. To have even the slightest chance I had to find the very best men available and train them to a razor's edge of efficiency and teamwork. And that wasn't the end of it. Logistics in a war zone are a nightmare of bureaucracy, chicanery and corruption. I shuddered at the prospect of foraging for the supplies and equipment needed.

I opted for a considered approach. Back at the safe house, I poured a whisky and settled back in my armchair, notebook and pencil ready, only to be interrupted by a knock. A fit, lean man turned out in a pressed uniform was at the door. His dark complexion and clipped black moustache gave his face a serious look, but his eyes laughed.

"Good heavens," I shouted, "John Loving! I thought the Japs had stuck a bayonet in you."

"Not likely, Rex."

John relaxed at the kitchen table while I made tea and tried to hide my delight that this man who had trekked the island more than any other living soul had turned up at my door.

"Send me away if you will, Rex," he said. "But don't let me die wondering. Are you or are you not on a special assignment?"

"Yes, so secret I'm not even supposed to exist, but now you've come from nowhere. So much for confidentiality."

"Since the secret's not so precious any more, fill me in. I'll take anything dangerous."

"Oh, what the hell," I said. "You know the right people and I've worked with you. If you turn out to be a security risk they can court martial me."

"You're a regular hero, Rex."

"High command wants us to watch the sea lanes southeast of Rabaul."

John leapt to his feet. "I'm in. Let's decide where to begin."

I spread a map on the table. John pointed at a bump on the southeast coast. "There's your place," he announced. "Cape Orford. The land rises to a plateau behind Baien Village. From there you can see half way to Bougainville. A leader by the name of Telakul holds sway all the way down to Jacquinot Bay. He's rock solid. Laid it on the line for our boys when they ran through his patch after the fall of Rabaul.

"Well let's get cracking," I said. "You'll operate the radio and take care of the native members of the group."

"Ah, natives. Absolutely. Can't do anything without their help. We'll need three local guides and a top notch fighting man."

"Let's see if we can get the toughest policeman in the Territory," I said.

"And who might that be, Rex?"

"Rocky Kepas."

"The nuggety corporal who shot that spearman who was about to turn you into a kebab?"

"That's the one, John."

My ever-cheerful partner grinned fit to split his face. "Find him, mate. Find him," he crowed. "A hero is de rigeur on a jaunt such as the one we're planning. I'm not one and you're not either. But Rocky will fit the bill just fine."

"Tell me something I don't know, John," I said. "To me he's a hero already."

"And to your mum, mate. Don't forget your mum."

Next morning I called the director of native affairs. "I need guides for New Britain. And if you know where I can find Rocky Kepas, I need him too."

"Rocky? I saw him last week at Konedobu barracks, drilling recruits."

"That's a good start. Can you find me some natives?"

"The army has mustered hundreds of carriers over at Popondetta. You can hitch a ride on a supply flight."

On the parade ground at the police barracks, a solidly built, hawk-faced man was berating a squad of rookies.

"Rocky," I called.

The big man's eyes shone.

"Want to kick a Japanese arse or two?"

Rocky's grin was all the answer I needed.

"We may all be killed," I said. "Are you afraid?"

"If I die, I die," he said.

Next morning, I boarded a transport plane for the hop over the Owen Stanley Range to Popondetta. John and I had hit the whiskey the night before and my head throbbed fit to split when the pilot revved the engines.

A young crewman with a toothy smile brought a pot of tea in a cracked pot and a bun in a brown bag. "Courtesy of His Majesty's Royal Australian Air Force," he said.

"Can you beat that," I said to the soldier in the next seat. "Too young to shave and already a smart arse."

"Geez, you look like shit," the soldier said.

I stuffed the bun into my mouth and washed it down with a mouthful of tepid tea. "Got kicked by a horse," I groaned.

I turned my face to the window and nodded off, and the next I recall the plane bumped onto the metal matting of Popondetta strip with a squeal of tires that pierced me through both temples.

Popondetta was a mad scene of barely controlled chaos. I hitched a ride to the military outpost at Soputa, where I picked my way through piles of crates, lines of vehicles, stacks of drums and rows of tents, to the big khaki marquee of Sixteen Brigade HQ. I felt pretty clever finding the place, but the warrant officer who received me was not about to waste his time on a gung ho Navy man.

"Our blokes are having a scrap with the Japs not half an hour's march from here," he yelled. "And while we're having a think about that, you wander in wanting us to find you some boongs. Ferkraissake, piss off back to Moresby."

I made a show of asking my driver to take me back to the airfield, but as we drove away I said I needed to take the long route back past the hospital, where the of carriers were laid up.

For half an hour, I wandered from group to group among the throng of bored, listless carriers, asking if anyone was from New Britain. I came up with nothing; but just as I was about to give up my driver pointed out three natives lazing on the lawn by the main gate. All three were from New Britain.

"Would you all like to go back to your island?"

"Yes," they chorused.

"What if you have to fight the Japanese?"

"Ready when you are," the oldest of the three said, with a steely smile. "Those miserable bastards starved and beat us."

The spokesman was a fellow by the name of Pranis, from a village on the north coast of the island. He was a little old for a strenuous mission, but he was broad-shouldered and tall and looked as though he could paddle a canoe all day.

I turned to the others. Darius hailed from the mountains inland of Rabaul, and the youngest, Blasius, turned out to be from the very place I wanted to go, Baien village.

The doctor in charge signed the clearance and I arranged four seats on the afternoon flight. The three recruits boarded the Dakota with all the enthusiasm of boy scouts on a jaunt.

It was a memorable takeoff. The pilot gunned the engines, roared fast and low over the grasslands at the foot of the Owen Stanley Range, banked in a wide arc and thrashed the big twin radials, in what seemed to me a desperate gamble to gain sufficient altitude to pass safely over the peaks that rose like a battlement over the flight path to the north.

I looked down at the patches of kunai grass shimmering in the afternoon sun on the slopes, pulled my seat belt tight, and watched the smiles disappear from the faces of my recruits when we hit the first air pocket.

From Port Moresby we flew to Townsville. We fed our new members well and gave them plenty of rest, and within three days they had settled in well enough to start training, so I moved the operation back to the Gold Coast.

We ran the beach together, drilled together, force-marched together and ate together. As days became weeks, my ragged little band of individuals became a well-drilled team.

It was time to set the ball rolling, so I plunged gloomily into the arcane world of military administration, expecting weeks of wrangling and cajoling to supply my operation and con a ride back to Moresby for the team, but that's not the way things turned out. With the help of a couple of well-directed telegrams from my commander, I was back in Broadbeach in three days with approval for seats for six with baggage on a transport to Port Moresby, the precious piece of paper almost burning a hole in my pocket.

John's eyes shone. "Jeezuz, Mary and Joseph, Rex, I've never seen a stamped travel voucher before. I have witnessed a miracle. Now, not even the prospect of sitting sidesaddle on canvas seats in the drafty bowels of a B17 for three hours can dampen my spirits."

"High praise, coming from a bull-shitter," I mocked but John was beyond banter.

"Farewell and adieu to you Queensland ladies," he sang, dancing with the broom. I grabbed the mop and joined him. "Farewell and adieu, you rough broads of Broadbeach," I sang, and together we danced adding extemporary verses pouring scorn on all three armed services and our American allies, until the whiskey bottle ran dry and the moon slipped down over the horizon.
Chapter fifteen

Ruth

Recollections

Hashi and I slogged through the bush to the intersection with the main road.

I longed for the roar of traffic, but all I heard was the thrum of cicadas. I wanted city sights and neon lights, but instead I saw leaves, fronds, creepers and vines, interlaced and entwined in a riot of green.

It looked as though we were in for a long wait.

"Tired, Hashi," I said. "Hungry. Sweaty. Sore."

Hashi cupped a hand around his ear. "Maybe our luck's in," he said. "I hear a truck."

There was indeed a truck. It took the corner too fast, fishtailed, and flashed past sideways.

The driver, wide-eyed and tight-mouthed, corrected the skid and the truck slid to a halt a stone's throw down the road, a wheel's width from a ditch.

The driver looked back and smiled.

"I will not ride with Rambo," I huffed, stamping my foot.

Hashi shrugged. "A ride's a ride."

It was no contest. My aching body had the final say.

We climbed on and the driver resumed his kamikaze charge towards Bialla, sliding around bends and reverse-steering to straighten up as he rocketed out of each turn.

Just when it seemed things couldn't get worse, they did. A gale blasted in from the sea, driving a roiling mass of clouds before it. The sky darkened and the rain set in.

We arrived wet, cold and miserable, only to have our torment compounded when the airport clerk told us all flights were canceled.

We were stuck for the night.

The guesthouse was a ramshackle place, a rambling ex-plantation homestead that smelt of mold, but it was a shelter from the storm and we were glad it was there. We slept until suppertime, and I when we awoke I could have sworn the dark patch of mold on the wall had crept a hand span higher.

The kitchen manager, a chain-smoker with a five o'clock shadow and a skin disease, ruled over both the kitchen and the dining room. We couldn't see into the kitchen, but the dining room was clean and we decided to take our chances. No matter what was served, it would be better than the crackers and tinned beef in our packs.

That night I got to know Hashi a little more. Everyone has a story and Hashi's was a knockout. He served on a forest conservation project in the Amazon Basin, and what happened after that went a long way towards explaining the mystery that surrounded him.

Here's what he said, exactly as he told it. Love doesn't forget.

"In the Amazon, corporations in league with corrupt officials made it impossible for me to do anything to help the people," he said.

"They hired thugs who pointed guns in the faces of the Indians and forced them to sign over vast tracts of land. Everyone profited except the locals, who lost their ancestral lands and their livelihoods," Hashi explained.

"On one occasion, Ruth," he said, "I managed to snap a grainy photo of an incident. Roughing up foreigners is a dicey game, so the bad guys settled for walking around me waving their guns. But I wouldn't be intimidated. I wrote to the press in America, Europe and Japan. I raised such a fuss they put me on a plane back to Japan."

"I stepped from the plane straight into the first tremors of an earthquake," Hashi recalled. "A taxi whisked me home and I was greeted by the shocking sight of my apartment block shaking like a poplar in the wind. The tremor passed and I went up to my flat, but as I opened the door another tremor struck, and I had to wedge myself in the doorway lest I pitch forward into the mayhem unfolding in my living room.

"Strange events happened that day, Ruth. My PhD fell to the floor and pieces of glass flew everywhere; then my grandfather's urn smashed down and his ashes spilled out. My bookcase swayed, a suitcase crashed to the floor, burst open and scattered my grandfather's wartime photos across the room. Then, another tremor struck, stronger than the last. I lost my grip and fell forward into a maelstrom of falling, flying, sliding, toppling furniture, broken glass, plates, papers and books," Hashi said.

"In hospital I had a visitor," he continued, "a shirtless, barefoot man with a dirty white cloth around his waist and a khaki bandana. He was holding a machete, but the nurse didn't seem to mind. Or maybe she couldn't see him."

" 'You will find peace, Mr. Hashimoto,' the visitor said, 'But only when you learn who your grandfather was.' "

"He was a scary sight, Ruth, an outlandish figure, completely out of place. But I believed him," Hashi said.

" 'I am a wandering bushman' the man said. 'I go from place to place and help where I can. If you're not comfortable with that, send me away and I'll go.'

" 'My memory's gone,' I said. 'Talk to me.'

" 'Better than that,' the visitor said, 'I'll tell you about your new life. You will wander from island to island across the Pacific, and you will finish your journey in New Britain. There you will come to know your grandfather, the man.'

" 'How will I support myself?' I asked.

" 'You will eke out a living,' the visitor said. 'Don't worry. I'll turn up from time to time.' "

There you have it, Justin: the day Hashi's life changed forever, exactly as he told it.

The next day dawned bright and clear and our morning flight to Hoskins was a journey of sheer beauty. Below the plane, the vista of green shores and blue-black reefs, outlined in white by lines of breakers marching in from the ocean, stretched as far as the eye could see.

We were a couple of days ahead of schedule and could afford to take time out to rest, but there was no stopping Hashi. He wanted to see more of the island and suggested we catch a plane across to Jacquinot Bay.

"Hashi," I said, "I'm due back in New York next week."

"We promised to meet up with the others," he said.

I scanned the volcanoes silhouetted against the sky and said nothing.

"Jacquinot Bay," he said, drawing me back.

"Can we fly commercial?" I asked, too tired to argue.

Hashi's face didn't change. "Not really," he said and shrugged.

I pounded his chest. "You want to charter a plane?"

Hashi smiled, the disarming smile he kept for difficult moments. "If it's worth going it's worth paying for," he said.

I stamped the tarmac. There was a lot about Hashi I didn't know and it was starting to worry me. He didn't want comfort and luxury. He was generous and charming. But he was a junkie for new experiences. Whatever he wanted to do, he could find the cash; but not once did he say where the money came from.

"I will pay my own way," I said.

"No problem."

"All I need is a bank."

Hashi smiled.

We disembarked into a blast of hot air at Hoskins. "Hotel, shower, bank," I said, but Hashi just grinned and said nothing as we lugged our packs to the terminal.

A dilapidated shuttle bus took us to a ramshackle iron-roofed building surrounded by cyclone wire topped with barbed wire. I was speechless. The Hoskins hotel bore no resemblance to the tropical villas I had seen in tour brochures.

Hashi laughed. "Don't worry," he said. "You'll like it. The nearest bank, by the way, is an hour's drive.

After lunch we took a passenger bus to town and I arranged a bank draft.

That evening, rested, showered and made up, I felt cool and relaxed. The pains in my stomach were gone and things were looking up. We ordered dinner, and as we waited to be served I counted my share of the trip's expenses into Hashi's hand.

That night we made love with the cool air of the fan on our bodies and I lay in Hashi's arms until the power went off. The air was sticky and still. In the moonlit brilliance of the tropical night, fruit bats in their hundreds screeched in the trees. Around midnight I went to take a cold shower but the water was off. Fortunately there was a bar fridge with a jug of water, still cold.

At breakfast, I asked for strong coffee and searched bleary-eyed in my bag for an aspirin. Hashi smiled, pushed my hand back and produced a hip flask. He poured a drop of whisky into his coffee and two drops into mine.

I can't put into words how cute Hashi was when he did little things like that. But the sweet moment was cut short by the buzz saw roar of a plane. Hashi leapt up. "Come on," he shouted. "Maybe we can get a charter out of here."

When we got to the airstrip, the pilot was refueling.

"In a hurry?" asked Hashi.

"No, just want to get back to Rabaul for a lager sandwich."

"Care to detour via Jacquinot Bay?"

The pilot agreed for a price just short of exorbitant.

Hashi and I had a great time on the other side of the island. We took a speedboat across Wide Bay and stayed in Pomio, where we snorkeled and enjoyed the leisurely pace of village life.

Too soon it was time to go back to Jacquinot Bay. And that's a story I've already told.
Chapter sixteen

Rex

Extract from a transcript of a recording Combined Allied Intelligence

Operation Little Bull informal interim debrief Townsville September 1944

August 1942. That was the darkest hour. The Yanks were hanging on in the Solomons and the Australians were hanging on in New Guinea. High command reckoned we could still win, and they had a plan. They called it Cartwheel: Take Rabaul and then roll on all the way to Tokyo. Little Bull was one small cog in the big wheel. My task was to get our small part right

The first thing on my mind was training. I spirited the team away to a couple of fishing shacks hidden among the trees across the road from the surf at Broadbeach, a couple of hours' drive south of Brisbane, and got down to serious training.

Next I turned my attention to hunting down the things we needed. No easy task in wartime.

I requisitioned an AWA 3B teleradio and a rhombic aerial, crucial equipment with which we could make accurate long-range transmissions, but the gear was clumsy and heavy so I placed an order for a lightweight radio we could use on the run.

The radios, however, were just the beginning. We needed more, much more and I placed orders like a man demented.

Early one morning a car drew up before dawn and two men I'd never seen before unloaded a metal case and two ammunition boxes. When we opened the case a pair of Austen light machine guns, disassembled with the components nestled in straw lay before us, glistening in the dim light of the hurricane lamp.

"Put one together, Rocky," I said. "Learn how it works, then teach me."

Next day we drove up to Military Stores in Brisbane in search of rifles. Burning a hole in my pocket was a requisition order for six .44 carbines. I had relied on the Winchester as a patrol officer. It was accurate at close range and worked even when gummed up with mud and humidity. But its soft lead bullets did not conform to the Geneva Convention.

At the depot, I flourished my requisition order for the rifles with confidence.

"No problem," the supply officer said. "But what's going to come out the spout? The bullets these babies fire blow a hole in bigger than a cricket ball."

Realizing my naval whites inspired no confidence in the khaki-clad supply officer, I took the second requisition from my pocket with little confidence. My misgivings, however, soon evaporated. The man was as blunt as his bullets. "I don't give a rat's arse whether you fire illegal ordnance or marshmallows," he snapped, then, with exaggerated effort heaved a case of bullets onto the counter. "When the brass hears the Japs have chopped your head off," he said, "they won't be checking paperwork."

"Only one case?" I queried.

If looks could kill.

"I've only one pair of hands," he yelled. "You can bloody well pick the rest up yourselves."

Back at the safe house, I called the team together.

"Forget Supply Officer Sunshine," I said. "We're headed for the mountains, with the best experience, the best weapons, and the best radio equipment. Our planning is what protects us, so let's get busy and find the rest of what we need.

Rocky scoffed. "I can barter for vegetables and shoot all the game we need. We'll live off the land."

"Johns and I are mere white men," I explained. "We need biscuits, bully beef, margarine, jam, medical supplies."

Rocky stalked off, grumbling about men with pale soft flesh and the stomachs of babies.

Purchasing consumables in wartime Brisbane involved entering the 'cash only' world of the black market. Fortunately, our ever-wise commander had foreseen this and had given me a stash. With my pockets bulging with banknotes, I strutted through the less savory street of the city like a gangster, relying on swagger to protect me from being mugged.

The trunk of our car was crammed with black market items useful on a New Guinea patrol: trade goods, steel axes, twist tobacco, a case of dynamite; all of it the ill-gotten proceeds of backstreet deals, and all of it impossible to get past the South Brisbane checkpoint.

John said we should send an army truck loaded with legitimately-obtained goods ahead of us. It was a great idea, so I placed a call to Coastwatch HQ. An hour later a truck trundled up and two hours later we approached the checkpoint waving a sheaf of receipts. The sentry waved us through and we sped away, our illicit goods undetected.

Brisbane was exciting, but the peace and quiet of Broadbeach was more my scene. I set up a training program and lectured the team on the virtues of routine and discipline, but in less than two days my plans lay in a heap. I was in the storeroom, deep in thought about how best to waterproof batteries, when John came in and shut the door softly.

"A bit cloak and dagger, mate," I said.

But John hadn't come to banter. "Rex," he said. "We've forgotten the boats."

My cheeks flushed. "Oh sweet mother of god, John. What a fool I am."

"Tell me something I don't know."

I rushed back to Brisbane, made some calls, and after two days of cajoling, pleading and arm-twisting I became the proud owner of two rubber boats and two collapsible kayaks, which I sent down to Broadbeach without delay.

When I returned, the islanders greeted me with furrowed brows and sullen faces.

"It's the submarine," John explained.

"Terrified of being underwater?"

"No, Rex. They hate the thought of being stuck in a metal tube smelling white men's B.O."

Later that week I paid a visit to the admiral in charge of US submarines. The powerful aura of the old submariner filled the room like an electric charge.

The admiral turned and fixed the steely gaze of his hazel, bloodshot eyes on me.

"I hear you need a ride," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"United States' submarines are not taxi cabs."

"I understand, sir."

What's the status of enemy activity where you're going?"

"Aerial photographs show no activity, sir."

The admiral smiled and stubbed out his cigar.

An aide entered with four Navy uniforms. "Give these to the islanders," the admiral said. "We want them to look like Negro sailors. And you guys should wear the same kind of skivvies the crew wears. Zero hour is dawn, day after tomorrow. Don't be late."

"You can rely on us," I assured him

"You'll be under the command of Captain Battista. Raised on tuna and shrimp on the Gulf of Mexico, that man. Salt water for blood."

The admiral put his arm around my shoulder and walked me to the window. Spread below was his dockside kingdom. "Y' see, Son," he said. "The Navy's charts of the waters where you're headed aren't worth shit. But if anyone can get you there, Battista can."

Two days later we arrived at the dock, on time and as breathless and excited as school kids.

We stowed our kit and went to the wardroom to get acquainted.

A rating brought coffee. After the long drive from Broadbeach, the coffee was welcome, but the nosy fellow's questions weren't.

"Where are you Aussies headed?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Logistical exercise. Goddam brass. Always wasting our time."

John asked for chewing gum and the rating returned with a box of PK.

The port pilot came in. "Comfortable, Gentlemen?" he asked.

John took the wad of gum from his mouth and flashed a college freshman smile.

"Sure," he drawled.

Life on board was a holiday. I learnt a new card game and John wandered from bow to stern making friends and sniffing out coffee. The crew showered the natives with gifts, and they returned the favor by performing tribal dances.

Eight days later we surfaced off Baien on a moonless night with a clear sky.

We launched our dinghies and kayaks into a calm sea lit by green flashes as flying fishes hurtled through the air and flotillas of squid floated by in a dazzling display of luminescence.

As we drew close to shore I caught the aroma of smoke and the unique odor of the tropics that hovers between the sickly sweetness of decaying vegetation and the vigorous freshness of palms, wild ginger and frangipani.

The natives stroked the water in rhythm, while Rocky, perched in the bow stroked the sleek barrel of his Sten gun and scanned the beach.

The bottom of the dinghy scraped the gravely sand and we splashed ashore. I motioned for everyone to take cover behind a low ridge in the sand, and sent Rocky and Darius scouting ahead into the coconut plantation.

Hearing their all-clear call, we rose from behind the sandbank, only to duck for cover again when we saw three figures returning along the beach. We need not have worried, for the third man on the beach with Rocky and Darius was a friendly local.

"Welcome, Masta," said the nervy little man. "I am Levi Naka, the mission Catechist. I have prayed for this day to come."

"This is just the beginning," I said. "We can talk later. Right now I need to know if there are enemy troops, and I need to hide the boxes and crates we've brought ashore.

"There are no Japanese within two hours' march," he said.

"Can you guarantee nobody will tell them we are here?"

"Come and see," he replied.

Levi escorted us to the men's house. We squatted by the fire and made small-talk. I tried to break the ice with gifts of tobacco and cigarette paper. The men spoke in hushed tones and glanced about nervously as they lit their smokes. It was reasonable to worry. We had come out of the darkness like ghosts, unannounced and armed to the teeth. Now we wanted their assistance. By helping us they would become collaborators and liable to be shot.

The fact that one of our team hailed from there made not a jot of difference. The villagers respected Darius less than they trusted us. The only one I could rely on was smart little Levi who, although thin and hollow-chested, was, for all his frailty, a man of strong character.

With Levi's help I secured a promise of secrecy, but practical assistance was out of the question. Levi shrugged his shoulders. "Masta, I'll do all I can."

I ordered everyone to turn in and took the first watch myself.

My first task next morning was to send a message to Telakul, the powerful native leader who ruled over the whole region from his home village near Jacquinot Bay.

As my runner set off I breathed a prayer. Without Telakul on side, we could achieve nothing.

A few days later a rugged, weather-beaten man walked into our camp. He was wearing a Paramount Luluai's cap with the Japanese insignia removed and an Australian badge shining in its place."

"The only native game enough to stick it up the Japs like that is Telakul," John said.

"I reckon, John. Like what I see!"

Telakul walked up to me and with a look neither superior nor subservient and fixed me with the gaze of his steel-gray eyes.

"How's the war going?" he asked.

"Our side is winning, but it may take some time," I said.

"Good," Telakul replied. "Now don't you worry about us natives. We're with you. The Japanese won't know you're here."

A gift seemed in order, so I sent Rocky for a case of dynamite.

The old luluai's eyes lit up, but the sergeant frowned.

"No blast-fishing when the Japanese are around," he said.

Telakul glared. "The Japanese won't find anything I don't want them to see, police-boy," he said.

From then on Telakul addressed only me. "The tulutul here is rubbish," he said. "Tell him nothing. And get rid of that fellow Darius you brought with you... weak as piss... molested three little girls in Baien and ran away to the war when the parents came after him with spears."

I shaped to speak, but with one hand Telakul motioned me to stay silent and with the other gestured for me to sit down.

It was great entertainment for John. "One hell of a native, this feller, Rex!" he chuckled, but the great man silenced him with a glare and pressed on.

"Pranis who came with you is too old and Blasius is too young. Keep an eye on them, and if they get in the way send them down to me."

"Anything else?" I asked.

"Of course," he sniffed. That's just getting rid of the rubbish. Now I'll tell you who to trust."

"Well, gee, thanks," I said.

John had to walk away or die laughing.

"The luluai from this village is good value," Telakul declared. "You can rely on him."

"Is that all?"

"There's me, masta."

"Only two of you I can trust?"

"No," he replied. "Many. I'm the pipeline. I will tell the real men to give you all the help you need, when you need it, and they will do it. You only have to ask."

It felt like a one-way conversation with the Commander of Coastwatchers himself.

But there was no time to dwell on it, for Telakul, in the curt manner of a man with pressing things to do, stood up, tightened his laplap, straightened his hat, shook me by the hand and strode off.

"I'll send you two good ex-police," he called back as he rounded the bend.

There was, however, no time to reflect on Telakul's visit; for no sooner had he left than another caller turned up, a puny, ring-wormed man with a ready smile and spritely step, bearing a basket of taro shoots.

"I couldn't leave a bunch of helpless white men stuck up here with nobody to look out for them," the little fellow said, and grinned at Rocky, who'd come prowling by to see whether he needed to pull the newcomer into line.

"The soles of a white man's feet are like bread," he declaimed. "And your average white man can't tell the difference between a taro shoot and his own dick!"

Rocky grinned, every betel-stained tooth showing. "So you reckon my white men need some help!" he chortled, and with that, he began to jig about in front of us, pointing with one hand, and with the other miming with thumb and forefinger the action of a man estimating the length of an exceedingly short taro shoot.

John looked at Rocky, then at our visitor, then back at me. "This little fellow wants to help us win the war by planting vegetables for us," he said. "What do you say, Rex?"

"I say fresh vegetables for the duration of our war sounds pretty good."
Chapter seventeen

Ruth

Diary extract 21 June 2000 Rabaul Community Hostel

I'm underwhelmed. Yesterday was Memorial Day in this sleepy town: a service, some speeches, a half–hearted parade of graying veterans and self-important local VIPs, and a reception with limp sandwiches and warm beer. They touted it as the event of the year, but I felt nothing. Not my war; not my generation. But once the sun went down, it was a different story. The backpackers' party was a blast.

In the early hours Hashi and I crashed on the verandah and slept until the birds woke us. Bleary and nursing sore heads, we watched the sun rise. The morning rays flashed silver and gold off the dark, still surface of the bay. We shaded our eyes and sat in silence, until Justin spotted us from his perch under the frangipani where he was sitting quietly, taking in the view. As usual, he was full of jokes and comments, even at that early hour.

Justin's banter woke the others and together we dragged our aching bodies and throbbing heads back inside to look for coffee. Justin said breakfast was on him, but I wished he could have been a little less loud and cheerful about it. We needed aspirin more urgently than we needed eggs and toast.

As accomplished as a seasoned diplomat, Justin took us lightly by the arm, ushered us to the dining room and ordered breakfast.

Justin got into the bacon and eggs like a starving man, but we just wanted coffee ─ as much of it as we could gulp down. Like a pair of mime figures, we finished the first cup, silently swirled the dregs, breathed the aroma and poured another.

After breakfast, we showered, packed and carted our rucksacks to the verandah. We marked our maps and diaries, and as we stood in a bunch goofing off Justin moved quietly among our packs, tightening straps and checking zips and drawstrings.

Wheels crunched on the gravel driveway. We heaved our bags into the taxi pickup, clambered aboard and sped off to the airport.

"I can't wait to get to the places where my grandfather served," Hashi said. "Your friend Miriam was there too, back in the day."

"And Rex," I said.

Hashi shrugged. "Yeah, him too, I guess."

"Has Rex gotten up your nose?"

" 'I don't want to see you go off on a wild goose chase," he said.

" 'What are you saying, Hashi?"

"Ruth, what if there was no Rex... at least not in the way Miriam says."

I stroked the front of his shirt. "You're wrong, Hashi. Dead wrong, my love. But life's too short to spend time arguing."

Hashi smiled. I smiled back, and he shrugged.

"Sorry, Pilgrim."

It was classic Hashi. The shrug, the smile, the strange choice of words.

The taxi pulled up at the airport. Hashi heaved both our packs onto his shoulders and headed straight for check-in. The ticket clerk said two cancellations for the morning flight to Hoskins had just come through. We were in luck.
Chapter eighteen

Rex

Extract from a transcript of a recording Combined Allied Intelligence

Operation Little Bull informal interim debrief Townsville September 1944

A commotion woke me from my siesta. On the far side of the camp Rocky was grappling with a pair of stocky men. "Let them go," I yelled. "They're unarmed."

The taller of the two intruders stepped towards me and saluted. "Masta," he said. "I am Kamang and this is my brother Ariak. Telakul sent us."

John gasped. "I know these men," he said. They are constables from the police detachment at Talasea. Kamang was my right-hand man at Malutu patrol post."

I shook Kamang's hand and turned to welcome his brother Ariak, a shorter, stockier man.

Ariak took half a pace forward and peered at me. He looked so much like my mother inspecting market produce, I expected at any moment he'd give me a pinch or a poke, but Ariak stepped back with the light of recognition in his eyes and turned to the others. "This kiap," he announced, "Is the first white man I ever saw!"

It was true. He and his brother hailed from the mountains of the Rai Coast hinterland, where I had led a 'first contact' patrol seven years before.

It felt good to have two more men, and I wasn't the only one to realize what a lucky break it was. I'd seen Rocky sizing the brothers up, and it came as no surprise when he stepped up and asked me to assign them to his squad, _to knock them into shape_ as he put it.

The stroke of luck we enjoyed that day was a single bright spot amid the weeks of waiting and watching. Day after day we scanned the sea and sky from dawn to dusk with no success.

"They're lying low," John growled. "Gathering their strength."

Jim tinkered with the generator, while Rocky and his squad kept themselves busy building a fine lookout platform in the branches of the huge kwila tree towering above our camp.

There was nothing for John and I to do, and I confess to having the odd moment when I fingered the trigger of my revolver and fantasized dark thoughts about my second-in-command as he whiled away the hours playing solitaire as, whistling thinly through clenched teeth he squeaked his way through a seemingly endless repertoire of arias from Carmen and La Bohème.

On the seventh day, at siesta time in the sleepy haze of the afternoon, the roar of the generator suddenly ripped through the silence.

John, Jim and I jigged about, laughing and slapping each other on the back, and we must have overdone it, for Rocky, who had strong ideas about decorum, averted his eyes and walked away.

We ran to the radio shack, unraveled the antenna wires and, stumbling and colliding stretched them into a shape vaguely resembling the required rhomboid. Once more, Rocky was compelled to avert his scornful gaze.

Our Keystone cops routine ended well, however, for within half an hour Jim was transmitting a test signal. The operator's voice crackled across the airwaves. Jim gasped. "Full strength signal!" he yelled.

I called everyone together. "Gentlemen," I said, "High command gave us eight weeks. Now here we were, in position, covert and on the air, a day ahead of deadline. It was to for this moment I risked my life in the black market," I explained, and produced a bottle of double-malted whisky.

That afternoon, the operation began with laughter, but when a week later we had seen nothing more than a couple of patrol aircraft, the smiles disappeared.

"Patience," I said. "You've heard the barges thrumming at night. The enemy is stirring."

Throughout November we watched, but there were no Japanese movements at sea or in the air. The monsoon set in, and the unrelenting procession of rainy days took its toll on our morale. All we could do was keep watch, play bridge, drink tea, and try to stay dry.

Levi stirred us up with news that a Japanese-appointed policeman from Rabaul wanted to come and visit. No less than Maekel Pasila, a sergeant of the Territorial Police. Rocky knew him and urged me to let him come.

Our lookouts reported a party headed our way from the northeast. We grabbed our weapons and melted into the undergrowth.

A ragged line of natives armed with machetes and sticks made its way into the camp.

Rocky leapt on the lead man, grabbed him around the neck and gripped his head to his chest.

The others fled into the waiting arms of Ariak and Kamang, who baled them up at gunpoint.

"Tell me who are you," Rocky hissed.

Sobbing and twisting in Rocky's constrictor-like grip, the poor fellow managed to choke out a reply. "I am Constable Banara of the Territorial Police. Our commander discharged us go when the Japanese took Rabaul."

I know him!" Kamang said. "He joined up with me in Madang. He's a saltwater boy from the Rai Coast, a real milk-sop."

Rocky released Banara, but he wasn't finished with him. "Who are they?" he roared, pointing to the four ragged men cowering at gunpoint.

"That's Corporal Birua and his squad of police from Rabaul."

A cockatoo screeched in the treetops and a stray breeze wafted the stench of the rotting corpse of a bush animal into the clearing.

At the mention of his name, Birua took courage, stepped forward and offered Rocky a slovenly salute.

The corporal was a slightly built man with a cocky bearing and a plausible manner. The others deferred to him and that, along with his slovenly salute, drove Rocky to a frenzied display of dominance. He grabbed Birua by the shirtfront. "You are not a corporal!" he bellowed. "You can't even salute. The Japanese sent you to betray us!"

"Not so," Birua stammered. "We came to _fight_ alongside you," he protested, but his voice trailed to silence as a man clad in a ragged police shirt with sergeant's stripes emerged from behind a coachwood tree.

Rocky gaped. "Sergeant Maekel!" he yelled.

Sergeant Maekel Pasila of the Territorial Police was the first officer Rocky had served under as a rookie, but events had moved on, and as an army sergeant Rocky now outranked his former boss. Only a test of strength could resolve it.

Rocky leapt to a spearman's stance, holding his gun above his head as if it were a spear. "Pasila, you bastard," he yelled.

"You worthless kanaka," Maekel roared.

Rocky's face darkened. "Listen carefully," he growled. "Around here, I take my orders from the white men and then you and everybody else take orders from me."

"May I speak?" Maekel asked, feigning civility.

Rocky spurted a jet of betel saliva on Maekel's feet. "Only after you salute me!" he yelled.

The blood drained from Maekel's face. "Scabied fool! Your mother sleeps with dogs!" he roared.

Rocky sprang forward and knocked him to his knees, a remarkable feat considering Maekel's greater height and long, strong limbs.

"Enough!" I yelled. "Rocky, I declare you a sergeant-major in the Australian Native Territorial Army. Maekel, I declare you a sergeant. You will continue to lead your squad but you will report to me through Rocky. Is that clear?"

The big fellow nodded. Rocky growled.

"Maekel," I said, "you don't have to salute Rocky this time, but from now on you must."

Rocky grunted and kicked the ground.

Maekel dusted himself off and ordered his men to attention. With a nod towards Rocky, he yelled, 'Parade dismissed' and stalked off towards the cookhouse.

He didn't get far. At that moment the cook appeared, swinging a steaming billycan, and, with the smile of a saint, offered Maekel a mug of tea. That brew was the settler. Steaming mugs of tea passed from hand to hand and in no time everyone was laughing and joking. I broke out a carton of cigarettes and passed smokes around.

Things had simmered down sufficiently for me to interrogate Maekel. "How many Japanese are in Rabaul?" I asked.

"Two million," he answered gravely.

"Are you afraid of them?" I asked.

The big fellow spat and said nothing.

Hearing Rocky shuffling and mumbling behind him, Maekel turned and asked him if he could be relied on in a fight.

Maekel and I laughed fit to split, and Rocky, seeing the funny side of it, roared with mock anger and swayed about in a weird, shuffling dance, one arm raised as though shaping to throw a spear.

The merriment, however, was cut short by shouting from the perimeter. A sentry appeared marching a sturdy young man before him at gunpoint.

"Secret Operation Little Bull, my arse!" John said. "This place is like Central Station. Everyone from the coast to the mountains knows we're here."

The youth cast a scornful glance back at the sentry, picked up the pace and strode towards me, hand extended in welcome.

"Good heavens, John!" I crowed. "The old warrior has sent his son to march with us!"

"Who's this?"

A familiar voice growled the question: Rocky was prowling around as usual. He hawked a gob of phlegm, leant towards the lad and let the spit-bomb drop so close to the lad that saliva reddened by the quid of areca nut Rock was chewing splashed up onto his ankles. "This boy is a _manggi nating_ , a mere youth," the big fellow declared.

"He's Telakul's son," I said.

From either side of his huge hawk-like nose, Rocky directed his critical gaze at the young man for a few seconds before pronouncing his verdict. "I don't care if this _manggi_ is _Jisus Krais Olmaiti_ ," he declaimed.

John had either to leave or die laughing, so he wandered off and left me to manage alone.

"What do you want me to do with him, Rocky?" I asked, flashing my most benign smile.

"Put him in my squad," Rocky sniffed,

"Very good, big feller," I laughed. "He's yours to train. I'll tell Maekel later."

Rocky grinned, every betel-stained tooth showing.

John sauntered back. "My god, what a protégé," he declared. "What a pair they'll make when Rocky has shared with him all his evil arts. The mere thought of those two prowling the jungle with bushknives gives me goosebumps."

It was all exaggeration, and none of it mattered. The fact was we had one more able-bodied man. It was a pleasing thought, and I wanted a moment to savor it, so I left the lad in John's care, grabbed a packet of Lucky Strikes and made for the bush.

I found a shady spot and lit up, but as I drew my first breath of nicotine in six weeks, John rushed up all red-faced and breathless, waving a piece of paper.

"Spoilsport!" I growled.

"Sorry boss, new orders.

I took a couple of desperate puffs as I read, then a last, lingering drag, but as, lost in thought, I turned to discard the butt, Rocky stepped from the undergrowth like a prowling leopard, taking me so completely by surprise I dropped the burning stub in my lap.

"So help me Rocky, your eves-dropping will get you shot one of these days," I yelled.

The tactful fellow stood motionless with his eyes fixed on the treetops as I danced about brushing ash off.

" _Sori masta_ ," he intoned. "I need to know what's going on."

"Very well," I sighed. "You'll hear it at the meeting anyway. High command wants us to watch every inch of this island. They're sending new guests to Hotel Little Bull, and we're to see to their every requirement. Our tropical holiday is over."

"I'll not be a baggage boy for anyone," Rocky growled. "But give these new chums to me for a week of jungle training, _masta_ , and I guarantee they'll survive."
Chapter nineteen

Justin

Diary extract 23 June 2000 Rabaul Community Hostel

I awoke to a clear skies and a touch of dew that hinted of a sultry day. With the sun about to rise over St. George's Channel, no power on earth was going to keep me in bed, but to see it I had to step over the sleeping forms of backpackers crashed out on the verandah.

Brushing through the clover, I made my way to the frangipani by the bayside. Honeyeaters were arriving to drink the nectar. One by one, they flitted in, with each new arrival staking a claim until the branches shook and blossoms showered down.

A rasping cough broke the spell, the kind of cough that goes with phlegm and regret.

Along the verandah rail a sorry line of figures stood, squinting at me with rheumy eyes.

"Breakfast's on me," I yelled with scant regard for their throbbing heads.

They groaned and rubbed their eyes.

"Nice to be appreciated."

More groans from the penitents at the altar rail.

"Don't worry," I shouted, "The coffee's hot and strong. And I have aspirin."

And that was enough to get them moving.

At breakfast, I chatted and joked, but not even the aroma of the coffee brewing in the kitchen could lift the spirits of my young friends, for they were sharing their last meal together after a memorable couple of days spent in each other's company.

But I had awoken that morning with an idea, a plan that might cheer them up.

"You know, guys," I said, "today doesn't have to be your final farewell."

Hashi paused, his fork half way to his mouth.

"There's a spot in the Nakanai Mountains where a bomber crashed," I explained. "You remember Rex, the guy in the stories? He set up a camp there during the war. He wanted a name that would confuse the enemy, so he called the place B24, like a map reference."

"And?" asked Hashi.

"Why don't you all meet up there? It's inland of Uasilau, where Ruth and Hashi are going. There's a good road most of the way and it's not too hard a walk up from the roadhead. It's near a lookout. You'd get great photos."

The idea scratched where they itched. Chatter started around the table as the idea sank in. Everyone wanted to give it a go. They would change their plans and meet at B24, God love 'em.

"One last party!" Ruth shouted, and raised a glass of orange juice.

"Here's to B24!"
Chapter twenty

Rex

Extract from a transcript of a recording Combined Allied Intelligence

Operation Little Bull informal interim debrief Townsville September 1944

The night before we broke camp I came down with fever and things didn't look good, but in the morning, as the sun peeped over the trees John brought two quinine tablets and a mug of tea, and by that simple gesture saved the day.

I took the pills and gulped them down with two or three mouthfuls of tea, grabbed my razor, dashed the rest of the tea onto my face, and began to shave. To this day, the look of surprise on John's face ranks among my prized memories.

"Saving time," I said. "We leave in an hour."

The ever-vigilant Rocky, prowling, scowling and cradling his Sten gun; led off, with John and me in the middle. Maekel, grim-faced, brought up the rear, performing a slow pirouette every few meters.

We reached the coast in two and a half hours and holed up in a swampy hollow behind the beach. We blackened our faces, built a rough cover and settled down to wait.

When darkness fell we crept out and lit signal fires. The wind off the bay, howling ever louder, stiffened the waves off the bay, and with the surge of the incoming tide drove them shoreward.

Cursing the wind, I wriggled into a comfortable position in the sand and tried to nap, but instead of rest I found frustration, for the stiff-backed swells were dumping with a steady, muffled drumbeat, and as each new row sucked back, I held my breath and waited for the thud to reverberate along the beach as it thumped down.

Around eight o'clock a flash of lightning lit the profile of a submarine standing off the headland, a ghostly apparition, barely visible in the brindled light of the new moon.

"Thank Christ," I breathed.

"No," John quipped. "Thank his Dad. I went above his head. Waiting on this beach turned me into a man of prayer."

"And a theologian," I said, keeping a straight face.

John shaped to reply, but Rocky silenced the pair of us. "You mastas are talking too much," he hissed, and in the darkness I saw two angry eyes peering at us from behind a grass-topped mound about five paces away.

Half an hour later the silhouettes of inflatable boats appeared out of the darkness, moving silently line astern. If anyone had spilled the beans to the enemy we were about to find out. I held my breath.

As the boats neared the shore, we heard softly voiced commands and the muffled splash of paddles. I flashed my torch three times and the dinghies fanned out for the run to the beach.

The wind off the bay swept the whine of a Cockney accent along the beach.

"Sergeant Jim Brothers, no less," I said to myself.

The closer the swells carried his boat, bucking and wallowing towards the shore, the louder the tough little Londoner berated the bo'sun and the shriller his voice grew. "Yew get these friggin' ba'reez ashore dry 'n' all...y' know wha' I mean?" the voice rang out. "Or I'll bloody break your neck," Jim yelled.

But no sooner had the words left his mouth than a dumper toppled him into the surf, along with his precious crate.

Ariak wrapped his arms around Jim, carried him ashore and stripped the little fellow naked.

As I rushed back along the beach, from about the distance a football field away I saw Jim's white buttocks glowing in the moonlight like the wan light of a paper lantern.

Ariak stripped off his loincloth and set about wiping Jim's face with it, and the more he wiped the louder Jim swore.

"Ferkraissake," I yelled. "Shut up and cover your arse."

John arrived, huffing and puffing, took one look and doubled up. "A bath and a rub-down for the gentleman!" he crowed. "Ariak's been farting and sweating into that loin cloth all day."

Rocky, a man with no love for bossy white men, appeared silently out of the darkness, teeth gleaming, squatted in front of Jim and grinned wickedly, his face no more than a hand's breadth from the poor fellow's nose. "Enjoy the smell of the tropics, masta," he said softly.

Men milled about, laughing, shouting and flashing torches along the beach.

Anger welled up in me, and I kicked the base of a coconut palm so hard it split the toe of my boot. "Listen up," I shouted. "This is not a Boy Scouts' adventure. If the beach is not clear by first light, you'll feel the tip of a Jap bayonet. That's if I don't shoot you first."

Along the beach, curses and grunts filled the air as men bent their backs to their loads.

"That's more like it," I yelled. "Let's hit the trail."

We trudged into camp before first light and flung our burdens down. We lounged around the fire, drank tea, munched scones, cracked jokes and shared cigarettes until the rigors of the trail faded.

The good mood, however, evaporated when we unpacked. All five batteries were ruined and four of the five transmitters were damaged. The lenses of our night-vision binoculars were fogged with fungus, and our rifles were starting to rust.

If the state of the equipment was like a bad dream, the state of the food was a nightmare. Sack by sodden sack, I opened the bags of rice and flour and found the contents of each one ruined.

"Rex, we're not worth shit without food stocks to fall back on," Jim said.

"You," I snapped. "Only just arrived, and already full of talk! If you must chatter, tell me you can get a signal out of here."

"That I can do. A weak one. Our boys on Bougainville can relay it for us."

"Finally, some good news," I said. "Hand me my notebook."

I scribbled a message and handed it to Jim for urgent transmission.

"To coastwatch command," the message read. "Request priority air drop replace food and equipment. Urgent. Detailed inventory follows."

With the emergency sorted, my next priority was to open the sealed envelope with my orders from Coastwatch HQ and have a chat about next steps with the officer in charge of the newly-arrived men.

"I read here that HQ wants us to cover the whole island," I said.

"A big thinker, our commander."

"Five groups," I said. "I'm to form the squads and dispatch them without delay."

"Great. So you're not sending us home?" he quipped.

"Far from it, my sea-soaked friend," I said. "There's going to be a landing on the western tip of this island to set up a jumping off point for the advance on Rabaul. High Command is relying on our transmissions to protect the bridgehead. All five of our teams have to be in place in less than eight weeks, without fail."

"Just a quiet little bull, hiding in the bush?"

"Who save lives," I said. "Now, if you've no more to add, do me a favor and call everyone together.

Sweaty men drifted in from all corners of the camp and in threes and fours squatted anywhere they could find shade within hearing distance.

"Operation Little Bull or Operation Brown's Bloody Cows?" I began.

It was a good start, and when the laughter subsided I had an attentive audience.

"Gentlemen," I said. "We face long, dangerous missions that will require of you every ounce of courage and determination you can muster.

"Fate will play a role, and maybe, to some extent, sheer, dumb luck. In other words, men, fortune and happenstance, that pair of blind fools, will walk with you every step of the way."

Around the clearing, men stared at their boots, blew smoke rings, or stared at the tree line. They were ready for the details, so I assigned them to their groups: a base team, a team to watch Rabaul from the mountains, teams to watch the northeastern and southeastern coasts, and my team to watch the northwest coast from some handy squirrel-perch of my choosing in the Nakanai Mountains.

"My prayer is that we'll all meet again after this is over. _Via con Dios,_ gentlemen. And don't do anything stupid."

Things began well. The moon was full, with a supply drop scheduled, so I placed the men around the base of the plateau and set out to light the marker fire on the ridge. The hands on my watch indicated five minutes to drop time, but the scheduled time was little more than a fiction on paper. Flights were often delayed, or failed to turn up.

I blew the embers and warmed myself ready for a long wait, but five minutes later the drone of aero engines blew in on the breeze.

The roar of the black angel.

But the next moment I was thinking 'angel of death', for the Catalina was making straight for me, fast and low. Like a startled lizard, I skittered behind a ledge and flattened myself against the rock face.

The roar of the engines shook the ground and vibrated through my body, and a cruciform shadow flitted over the ridge as the plane passed across the face of the moon.

As the Catalina banked away, the roar of its engines echoed with a metallic, throaty buzz; then, as the pilot throttled back for the drop, the sound changed to a melodious drone.

Parachutes birthed from the plane's belly. The silken shrouds cracked open in a sequence of sharp pops, like the cracking of a string of Double Happy bungers, and descended in eerie silence to the face of the moon-brindled hillside, across which firefly pinpricks of light weaved as lines of men with torches made their way over the grassy slope.

Notwithstanding mountaintop moments, the grim business of war remained my dismal reality, and this was brought home to me early next morning when two runners puffed into camp with news that Telakul had been taken away in handcuffs.

I assembled the men.

"If Telakul talks, it's over," John said.

I recalled the steady gaze of Telakul's gray eyes and his rock-like handshake.

"Telakul won't talk, but someone else might. We move quickly or we don't move at all. Lying low is not an option. If we do that, we won't even merit a footnote when the history of this conflict is written."

"Bugger that," Jim said.

Rocky spat.

Maekel scowled and stroked the barrel of his Sten gun.

"Lie low, or go, go!" John crowed, flashing the Boy Scout grin that never failed to annoy me.

"Tomorrow," I said. "At first light."

The words washed through the group like ripples on a lagoon.

We set off at dawn and arrived at the coast mid-morning.

There were close calls with an enemy patrol and a spotter aircraft, and I was relieved when, late in the afternoon we came upon a secure place to camp for the night, with a stream of fresh water and big trees for cover.

Maekel threw a stick of dynamite into a pool and stunned fish by the dozen floated to the surface. Everyone had plenty to eat and we hit the trail next morning in good spirits, but as the sun rose higher and the hours went by, morale flagged. All day we slogged along the beach track, exposed to view, until, exhausted and bathed in sweat, we reached the turnoff to Telakul's village.

We trudged into Telakul's domain late in the afternoon, and the great man himself was there to welcome us, free, full of scorn for his captors, and none the worse for wear. He stood to address the crowd. "These white men are here on men's work," he rasped. "I will only assign real men to assist them."

Next morning we continued by the coast road and walked west in full view of the enemy outpost across the bay, praying that the troops deployed there had partied late. After a nerve-wracking hour's march, we reached the inland track, made our way into the foothills and trudged into Manten, the first mountain village, late in the afternoon.

We were headed for the grassy slopes of Talulu near the top of the range, where there were grassy slopes suitable for a parachute drop. Our supplies were low, so I decided to speed up by cutting across the ridges. We left the track at Kensina and crossed the headwaters of the Megigi River, literally crawling up the side of the gorge.

When Jim couldn't take another step, Ariak tethered the poor fellow to his belt and pulled him up, pack, rifle and ammunition; not a bad effort for a man already humping a teleradio, a battery, a gun and a pack.

The track at the top was a little easier, but more treacherous. John slipped off the razorback of the ridge, and would have tumbled all the way back down into the Megigi River had he not managed to grab onto a root.

When we arrived at Talulu, the tultul peered at John, standing so close we could smell his smoky odor.

Suddenly his eyes lit up. "It's the kiap from Malutu!" he shouted.

The tultul performed a shuffling dance, imitating the action of a spearman, and when he was done he turned his attention to me, peering into my face as he had with John.

"You too," he cried, "My dear masta from Pondo plantation! How's the King?" he yelled, pumping my hand.

"The king's fine," I said. "We're here on his business," I said. "I need to know where the Japs are."

"They won't leave the beach!" he crowed. "They're afraid of us!"

We pitched camp and boiled the billy.

John rolled a cheroot from a wrinkled tobacco leaf, lit up and sat back with a puzzled look.

"Penny for your thoughts," I said.

"What's with the tultul, Rex?"

"Natives think we all look the same," I said. "He just wanted to be sure."

Old and young, the local people struggled across mountain ridges just to see and touch us. The men lit up hand-rolled cheroots of locally-cured tobacco and chatted as they watched our every move, while the women, gossiping and joking, checked each other's head for lice and kept an eye on us from a discreet distance. One old lady was crocheting a native bilum-style string bag with the wing bone of a flying fox, and when I showed an interest, she promised to give it to me.

About three in the afternoon, on our fourth day at Talulu, Rocky surprised us all when he suddenly appeared out of the bush, marching a ragtag bunch of people at gunpoint, three mixed-race refugees, two of them women, and a slight man of Asian appearance, all of them dressed in rags.

One of the women walked ahead of the other. With dignified bearing and measured step, she made directly for me and my heart jumped. The rigors of the trail must have dulled my senses, for it took a moment for me to recognize them. The three mixed-race newcomers were the Lazar family, and the young woman walking towards me was none other than Miriam, the plantation girl. Flights of fancy cannot equal the drama of real life. _Here in the flesh. Miriam._

The young Asian man spoke first.

"We took refuge at Palmalmal mission," he said. "We hoped things would be alright, but right after they massacred the prisoners at Tol, the Japanese marched to the Catholic mission, shot the priest and locked us up, but that night when the moon set we escaped to the mountains and we've lived here in the bush like wild animals ever since. Can we come with you? We will work for our keep."

"I know you. I saw you with the Chinese refugees at Adler Bay," I said.

The young man smiled and shook my hand. "While my father spoke with you, my brothers and I hid with a gun pointing at the back of your head," he said. "They wanted to kill you, but I talked them out of it."

John cupped a hand behind his ear, stepped aside and answered an imaginary phone. With a wicked wink, he held his hand over the make-believe mouthpiece, turned to the young man and said, "His Mum says thanks!"

I turned to the Lazars.

Michael, Miriam's brother, stepped away. Marita, lowered her eyes and turned aside, but Miriam stood with her gaze fixed on me.

Holding her lightly by the shoulders, I drew her to me and kissed her neck. "You're safe," I whispered.

Marita drummed her fingers, Michael drew back, Maekel rolled a smoke, Rocky turned his face away and Jim found something to stare at in the distance.

I traced a circle in the dust with the toe of my boot.

"No interrogation, then?" John strained the words through tight lips.

"You've got me this time," I said.

John made no reply and nobody was inclined to speak, so I took charge as best I could. "Give them something to eat and check their story," I said.

John nodded curtly.

"First things first," I said. "When you've finished debriefing them you can call me arse-about Rex."

Rocky could take no more. "Arse-about Rex!" he cried. Whooping and leaping, he capered so wildly his laplap fell off. But that wasn't the end of my humiliation. The big fellow threw himself down and rolled from side to side with his legs drawn up, exposing his great, hairy arsehole.

"It's a customary way of heaping scorn on you," John said dryly.

"I worked that out for myself," I snapped, and slunk away, cheeks burning.

I'd had better days.
Chapter twenty-one

Rex

Extract from a transcript of a recording Combined Allied Intelligence

Operation Little Bull informal interim debrief Townsville September 1944

Neither the rustling of the wind in the thatching, nor the chafing of the split palm slats of my bunk could banish Miriam from my mind. I drifted off to dreams of her caress and slept until the morning mist lifted.

John rubbed his eyes, propped himself up and with his free hand felt around on the floor for his boots. "Early sun, Rex," he said. "By the time the clouds close in we'll be gone."

We hit the trail mid-morning, and a big company we were. John, Jim and I marched in the van with Rocky's squad and the civilians. The carrier line filed behind like a long, black serpent, and Maekel's squad came up the rear. Ahead lay five hours of hiking to cross the divide.

The people of Babata, the first village on the northern side of the range, welcomed us with parcels of steamed manioc and taro. As the glow of the setting sun faded to gray and then black, the villagers gathered around the transit hut, raised their voices in unison and sang. It was a grand welcome.

Around midnight, the locals left, and in less than five minutes John's sonorous snoring filled the room. I pushed my sleeping mat close to Miriam's and we dozed off, side by side.

Early next morning, the luluai shook me awake. "Kiap, you have a visitor," he said.

A mere pace away from where Miriam lay stood a solidly-built man, his hair wet with dew. Miriam's laplap lay in a rumpled heap, but the intruder looked at me, not her, holding my gaze with dark, deep-set eyes.

Rocky burst through the door but lowered his gun when he saw the intruder. "Barilae!" he yelled. "This man is the luluai from Tii village," he said, eyes downcast. "When he heard we'd passed through Talulu, he came down to the main track and tailed us all the way here."

"Seems you've met your match," I said, but Rocky was too embarrassed to reply, for it was painfully clear that Barilae, with skill and audacity had silently shadowed us for two days and crept past Rocky's sentries undetected.

Anyone who could pull that off was special and Barilae was more than special ─ he was a celebrity. Years before, he and his kinsmen had murdered a group of gold prospectors, and when a posse came down from Rabaul to wreak vengeance, there was a fight. Two of the mountain men were killed, and Barilae took a bullet in the balls.

"Are you here to help?" Rocky asked.

"I will speak with the kiap," Barilae said in a firm voice.

Rocky shuffled and glared. "Around here, if you're black, you talk to me first."

Barilae held Rocky's gaze and lowered his voice.

"I will speak with the kiap."

I stood up and shook his hand. "Your reputation precedes you," I said. "Should you choose to join us, I would welcome your assistance in the fight against our common enemy. The Japanese forces may look strong, but we will send them packing."

Barilae circled in a shuffling dance, lunging at imaginary foes. "Our spears will draw blood!" he cried.

Looking to seal the alliance, I extended my hand, but Barilae threw aside his laplap and displayed his legendary scrotum, scarred and with one gnarled but healthy ball.

"The Ambassador from Tii village presents his credentials!" John chuckled.

Rocky, however, was not impressed. "Your solitary little ball is nothing to a man with two," he said.

Barilae sniffed.

"Just make sure you don't go blabbing about us to your coastal cousins," Rocky said.

Again Barilae sniffed. "The coastals are cook-boys and laborers. We'll tell them nothing."

As we spoke, the luluais from Kupi, Umu and Sipa turned up to pay their respects. With a collective gasp, they looked at Barilae, looked at each other, and then looked at me. The shameless show-off Barilae had one-upped them all and they were about to show their displeasure. They threw off their laplaps and stood to attention, bare-arsed, and Barilae had no choice but to strip off too and jump in behind them, last in line.

"Are you looking to come up the rear, Barilae?" John crowed.

Rocky sneered and adjusted his crutch.

And I struggled to keep my parade face.

We moved off, luluais in the lead, with the metal pendant of office each wore around his neck swinging to and fro with the rhythm of the march, and their appendages of manhood swaying back and forth with metronomic precision.

Ahead lay an easy walk down to Kupi village and the beginning of our coastwatching.

We arrived at Kupi late in the afternoon, exhausted. But our spirits revived when we saw the grandstand view down the coast to the majestic volcanoes of Willaumez. No boat or plane could pass unseen between us and Talasea.

For the next two months we kept watch, drumming our fingers against the binocular stand, bored out of our minds.

Rocky, in particular was on edge. One hot afternoon, as he paced back and forth I drew him aside. "I wanted you to hear this first from me first, big feller," I said. "The Americans have taken the western end of the island. The Japs are on the run, and you might not get to fire even one shot before it's over."

At that moment, I thought the toughest man I'd ever met was about to cry.

"For us, nothing changes," I went on. "We follow our orders and keep on keeping watch."

My gloomy assessment wasn't far off the mark. A couple of times, late in the afternoon, a lone supply submarine would creep past, heading west along the coast, but we wouldn't give our position away for such small prizes.

As the long, sultry days wore on towards the height of the monsoon, we sat bored witless, imprisoned by the pelting rain, staring at each other and wondering how operation Little Bull had turned out to be, as John delicately put it, 'Operation Bullshit.'

Every day was the same: Rocky pacing and cursing; John ridiculing everything; Jim moaning about the food; and me reaching for the aspirin. And when we tried to sleep, the crump of bombs exploding in Rabaul echoed all the way down from the Gazelle Peninsula through the island's vast subterranean network of limestone caverns and kept us from sleep.

For us it was the same routine every day, as boring as bat shit ─until the crash.

Lounging in my hammock, I sipped my tea and tried to ignore the migraine clawing at my scalp.

John, wearing nothing more than a towel, returned from the creek, having completed his morning ablutions. As carefree as a holidaymaker, he propped a mirror in the crook of a branch of the tree where I swung languidly in my hammock, and began to shave, whistling the theme from The Wizard of Oz.

I massaged my scalp, but my head throbbed all the harder. I bit my tongue, but John's whistling grew shriller. Finally, I could stand it no longer.

"Can't you do that when you're down to the creek?" I snapped.

John smiled. "The walk back brings out a sweat. Saves on shaving cream."

That was as far as the conversation went, for at that moment the scream of a diving plane pierced the air.

I threw myself behind a log.

"Ferkraissake, a Jap fighter!" I yelled.

"No, Rex." John shouted. "That's a bomber... a bloody big one!"

John dropped his towel, the better to move untrammeled, and, with the agility of an Olympic gymnast, flung his naked body on top of me.

"For heaven's sake," I yelled. "Put some clothes on before Rocky see us."

The diving plane was indeed a bomber. The Allies were plastering Rabaul with high explosives and out of thousands of sorties there were bound to be a few mishaps, but, tucked away as we were on the northern slopes, the last thing we expected was a bomber bearing down on us with an engine on fire and its bomb doors open.

The massive plane passed over so low I felt I could reach up and touch the bombs racked in its belly. The ground shook as it clipped the tops of the trees, knocking John's shaving mirror from its perch.

"The pilot was making for the closest clearing, and that's Kupi village. At the last moment he saw people there and pulled the stick back," John said, his voice shaking.

I brushed myself off. "He was trying to shake his bombs loose," I said. "Now he's crashed with a belly load."

"No explosion," John said. "Maybe they made it."

"Let's go and take a look."

We set off, making only slow progress hacking through wild country. It was a hot, sweaty slog and a bit of banter to ease the fatigue seemed in order.

"John, I never want to see you naked again," I said.

John grinned. "Protecting my commanding officer with my body, I was. Where's my medal?"

At the crash site, we could see that the pilot, unable to reach the sloping hillside, had chosen a small clearing as the next best option for a crash landing.

We followed the trail of wreckage. The bomber had crashed into a stand of trees and skidded through the branches, veering first left then right. Its tail fins had snapped off and the wings had torn away as it smashed between a huge pair of mountain cedars. What remained of the fuselage was nestled the height of a coconut palm up in the branches of two massive chestnut trees a football field's length down the valley, its nose distorted by a huge branch that had broken off and speared into the cockpit.

The bombs had not exploded, but no-one had survived and we had smashed bodies to deal with. We could do little more than bring the dead flyers down one at a time and see to a decent burial. When that was done we painted I-TABU—keep away—in big letters on the side of the fuselage in an attempt to warn curious natives to stay clear.

"It's a bloody long way for a kid to come from Lancaster County Pennsylvania," John growled as he riffed through the wallet of the youngest man in the line of corpses. "Let's hope someday someone will dig him out and write to his parents. I can't because I have a date with a Japanese bayonet."

"Do you think you're the only one who feels it, John?" I said. "You have no rendezvous with a Japanese bayonet. We will do our job quietly and leave this island when we're done."

John stooped to tuck the wallet into the shroud of parachute silk in which the man lay wrapped, then stepped back and saluted.

Rocky tipped the body into a shallow trench.

I cleared my throat and recited the Lord's Prayer. Levi said a few comforting words. Jim tried to remember the twenty-third Psalm. When they were done, I nodded to the police and they set to with the shovels. We erected the rudder of the plane over the grave with the names of the crew scratched into the aluminum surface.

We slogged back in silence, each with his thoughts. Our sweaty skins prickled in the dirt and heat of the jungle, and before long we needed a rest. We took a drink and snacked on candy and nuts and chatted as we swatted flies and picked leeches off our ankles. "John," I said, "the US marines have taken the western end of the island. The war will pass us by and we'll have no stories to tell our grandkids."

John cursed a leech that had found its way into his sock. "Nonsense," he said. "You'll see some action."

"What do you mean?" I said, lacing my boots.

"Are you the only one who can't see what's happening, Rex?"

I looked up. He wasn't joking.

"Spit it out," I said.

"You're so obsessed with a big sighting you've missed the obvious. Enemy troops on the run will start streaming through here any day now. Little Bull is over. You're the commander. Adapt."

The veil lifted from my eyes. I'd failed the flexibility test. In a tight-knit group such as ours, there was but one road to redemption: acknowledge the error, and start afresh.

"I ordered you to spit it out, John, and you did. Thank you. Now let's get back and make a plan."

We trudged in silence, and by the time we reached camp I had worked out what to do.

I ordered Corporal Birua to make his way discreetly through the Nakanai coastal villages to the West as far as the Japanese garrison at Malalia, and I sent Rocky eastward to scout as far as the garrison at Ulamona.

Birua, as smooth as a serpent, said he would rely on subterfuge. But Rocky declared that not even the imperial might of Japan could make him abandon his uniform. He would rely on stealth.

Gravely I watched as the pair made their final preparations, my mind a kaleidoscope of emotions. Never had a leader dispatched two such different men on such a dangerous mission ─ sneaky Birua and big, bold, loyal Rocky.

Four days later, Rocky stalked back into camp, full of news. Commander Satō had built an airstrip. With fresh troops and air support he was looking to assert control over the whole region and the local people were scared.

In the afternoon Birua arrived back. Hungry soldiers were passing through the western villages, he said. They were raiding the food gardens, leaving the local people short and forcing them to the edge of starvation.

A tense, talkative man returned with Birua. He was no bigger than a boy, but Birua said he was just the man I needed. And he was right.

The sharp little fellow had been the clerk at Megigi Plantation, but when the Japanese came they made him cart heavy loads of coral roadfill for the airstrip, and his puny body couldn't take it, so he fled to the little coastal village of Gavuvu, where Birua found him.

My diminutive friend was clever, observant and sneaky. And he hated the Japanese with a passion. At Gavuvu he'd gleaned a lot of information about the Japanese detachment at Malalia, and he couldn't wait to spill out everything he knew.

He said the naval officer in charge of Nakanai was Lieutenant-Commander Kasumi Hashimoto and he was about to establish a permanent outpost in the mountains. A detachment was already stationed at Tarobi Point, covering the turnoff to the main track.

I sent my new spy back to find out more and in two days he returned with the news that mountain men with axes had ambushed an advance patrol of two native police Hashimoto had sent out.

Hacked to pieces!

"Good riddance," said John. "With them out of the way we can relax."

"Don't get too comfy," I replied. "Hashimoto's not a fool. When his patrol doesn't return he'll come after us."

The next day Hashimoto marched into Silanga, in the foothills, with a platoon of marines. To the locals he represented real and present danger and they desperately tried to establish a friendly relationship. Everywhere he looked, Hashimoto saw deferential, smiling natives. The luluai declared the patrol welcome, and the tulutul stepped up to say that if the visitors needed anything, they had only to ask. Food was laid out, and a miniature 'Pax Nipponica' was born, marked with feasting, a _sake_ ceremony and the raising of the flag.

Watching this obsequious performance was Barilae's nephew, a stout teenager who shared his uncle's aggression. When the sentries changed guard, he took advantage of a momentary lapse in vigilance, and took off for the mountains.

When Barilae heard the news his eyes narrowed. "We will help the Australians kill these Japanese, along with their fireside dogs," he said darkly. "The Silanga people are scaby-arsed nobodies." He spat the words as though ridding his body of something foul. "Mountain girls fornicated with coastals and gave birth to snakes. They have no right to call themselves men."

For the next few weeks we sat in our aerie and considered the next step. The war on the island was nearing the end game, but we did not know how it would play out.

On New Year's Day two destroyers hove to off Malalia and embarked troops.

"The bastards are evacuating," Rocky growled, and he was right. Destroyers full of retreating troops were a rich prize. We called the target in, but the air force must have been busy elsewhere, for no strike came. Disappointed, we idled away the rest of the day.

Late that afternoon, we had a grandstand view of the destroyers as they sped eastward under full steam, trailing plumes of smoke that, etched in the sky against the dark curtain of the approaching night, made for a curiously charming scene.

"Malevolent beauty," I said.

"Away, scot free," John growled. "They should be at the bottom of the sea."

Maekel trembled with the frustration of it all. The long, fruitless watches. The missed targets. The uncertainty.

Rocky was pacing like a junkyard dog.

Jim, poking in a near-empty can for a last, elusive spoonful of baked beans, succeeded in putting us all on edge with the tink-tink of his spoon.

I needed to take control of the situation, the sooner the better, so I called a campfire meeting after the evening meal.

"All eyes are on Tokyo," I said. "But our little sideshow is about to get interesting. When the Marines start pushing along the coast, the enemy will flee and we're in their way."

John grinned and fingered the stock of his revolver.

"Our little group isn't up to it," I said.

Jim cast a quizzical glance at John and turned to me. "What are you saying?" he asked.

Rocky, eavesdropping as always, edged closer.

Jim leapt to his feet. "Let's have a crack at 'em!" he cried.

John said nothing while the words sank in, then he too leapt to his feet. "I've got it," he shouted. "Let's arm the natives."

Rocky joined in. "Look at me... I'm just a bush kanaka, but you gave me a gun. Give me two hundred mountain men for a month and I'll make soldiers of them!"

"I like your style," I said. "And I daresay you're right. The enemy will be looking to dig in while they regroup and replenish their food supplies. A militia force sure would spoil the party."

"These mountain people have put their faith in us," John said. "We can't just sit on our hands. They deserve better."

We sat by the fire all night and thrashed out the details.

"The mountain men can throw spears, but they are not good with a rifle," John said. "Let's give 'em shotguns and buckshot."

"Great idea," Jim said. "We'll need hand grenades too."

A low voice came from the shadows. "Ask for a Bren gun."

It was Rocky, as practical as ever, forthright as always ─ and still eavesdropping.

"Hold on," I said, scribbling frantically. "It's not Christmas yet."

But John was just getting started. "We're getting good air drops," he continued. "We can call in some more drops and fill their stomach with good energy food: rice, spam, navy biscuits."

Jim wasn't saying much. The emaciated little fellow's brow was even more furrowed than usual. "The locals have no experience with firearms," he said. "They could shoot themselves by accident or turn on each other. Or they might get their arses kicked and turn on us."

Rocky pushed forward and faced Jim down. "Nonsense," he shouted, pointing at the barrel of his Sten gun. "The mountain men are like this steel. All we have to do is show them what to do."

It was time for me to steady the ship. "Guns will only be issued to mature men," I said. "Every man issued with a gun must promise to return it when the fighting is over. And anyone who misuses a gun will forfeit his weapon."

Considering the matter settled, I composed a signal to headquarters. John produced a bottle of Scotch and we squatted in the shade to share a celebratory drink.

Rocky's eye was not on the bottle of whisky as I would have expected, given how much he loved the stuff and how rarely he got any. Ever alert, the big fellow was watching a man on the far side of the camp. A stout warrior had appeared out of the forest, naked but for a loin cloth. Although armed with a long black palm spear fiercely tipped with a cassowary claw, his intentions were clearly friendly.

"Who's that hanging around by the areca palm?" I asked.

"That's Wogeo," Rocky said. "He's trekked down from Uta village to speak to you."

"Send him over."

Wogeo approached, looking troubled. "I have killed a Japanese soldier. He was stealing food from my garden."

"Was this soldier in good shape?"

"He was well and strong and his rifle was clean," the stout little warrior said, "but he was desperate for food. I planted my spear between his shoulder blades when he stooped to pick a cucumber."

It was a turning point for me. If I needed proof our plan could work, here it was.

There was a spring in my step that evening as I paced the perimeter on night inspection.

Early next morning a runner panted into the camp with news of a Japanese patrol approaching Silanga. Two hours later Rocky heard on the jungle grapevine that Hashimoto had sent a detachment to Kokiso to guard the eastern track into the mountains. Our camp was way up at Kupi, on the western trail into the mountains, so we were safe for the time being, but the noose was tightening.

I decided to organize a raid out of the eastern mountains to put the Japanese off our scent. I also wanted to recce a new camp site in case we needed to vacate Kupi in a hurry, so after two days of frantic preparation we descended from our hideout to the fork in the road leading from the lowlands, and headed into the eastern range. John and Rocky checked out the villages near my old government base camp at Malutu, while I paid a visit to Barilae at Tii village.

Barilae and I chewed betel nut and talked into the night. He was a determined warrior with a firm handshake. I became used to his bragging, and I even began to enjoy the ludicrous details with which, with each retelling he embellished the tale of how he got a bullet in the balls. The man was a born comedian, a seasoned warrior and a natural leader, and there was no doubt in my mind, he was the man to lead the mountain men into battle.

Barilae promised to muster spearmen and rendezvous with me in a week. There was a smile on my face as I trekked back to Malutu. But my happy mood dissipated when I saw Rocky pacing nervously at the trail head. "Hashimoto has ordered the mountain people to muster at Kokiso in the foothills," he said. "He's going to appoint officials."

"Do you think it's a test of his authority?" I asked.

Rocky spat. "He'll see who turns up, and then chase down the ones who didn't."

"Let us handle this," Barilae said.

"What do you have in mind?" I asked.

"We'll send a hundred villagers down to Kokiso to stall them. The people will play dumb and their leaders will act scared. While Hashimoto's checking them out, they'll check him out, assess his strength and find out what he has in mind."

I nodded my approval. Barilae rubbed his hands. Espionage was even more fun than fighting.

Within a couple of days, events began to unfold in the way Barilae planned, only to unravel as it became clear he had underestimated his rival.

The wily Hashimoto had found someone to be his eyes and ears. This surly misfit, who lived in the last village on the road east of Malalia, could give Hashimoto the thing he most needed: information about the mountain people.

Rejected even by his family, Hashimoto's informant was an impetuous man and it was typical of him that he'd blown one of his legs off. Armed with a hand grenade stolen from the Japanese, he had one day set off to stun a haul of fish, going alone because he wanted all the fish for himself. The bomb slipped from his grasp and dropped into the bottom of his canoe. In a panic he tried at the last moment to kick it away but he fell backwards into the water. The villagers heard the explosion and found him floating unconscious in a cloud of blood, with one leg hanging by a tendon and a couple of reef sharks circling him.

The local people carried him back to the village and, in time, the wiry little fellow recovered from his wounds. Soon only a stump, a pair of crutches and the nickname 'One Leg' were all that remained of his misfortune. Unluckily for him, however, Hashimoto heard about the affair and sent a squad of marines to bring One Leg in on a charge of stealing ordnance.

Hashimoto sensed an opportunity and offered One Leg a deal he couldn't refuse: information in return for his life. His task was to intercept every scrap of information emerging from the mountains.

Keen to impress his new boss, One Leg's hobbled off on a tour of the lowlands villages beyond the roadhead, and within two days came up trumps. In a house at Ubae, a village with links to the mountains, he found trade tobacco that could only have come from us, so he arrested a number of suspects and marched them to Kokiso, a village disloyal to our cause. At Kokiso, he rounded up a few more suspects and sent word into the mountains ordering the people to come, for he had in mind to meet to squeeze information out of them.

The mountain folk disdained the people of Kokiso as quislings, but not everyone was a traitor, and on that dreadful day many of the villagers wailed for their bloodied and bound kinsfolk. "Don't worry," a boy whispered to his mate. "Rocky will come."

A visiting luluai, a known informant for the Japanese, overheard them and recognized the name of the most famous native policeman in the Territory. He hauled the boys before One Leg, who thrashed them until they talked.

Seeing the game was up, the mountain people panicked. They tore their way out of the hut where One Leg had locked them up and made a run for it. Some got away and some were recaptured.

The throng of spectators erupted. Among them was the nervy little man Birua had recruited to be my eyes and ears on the coast. The crafty little fellow had ingratiated himself with One Leg and tagged along with him. Now, ever the opportunist, he took advantage of the confusion to slip away, and a few hours later he turned up back at our camp and told me everything he'd seen.

"How many Japanese are there?"

"Five on the patrol," he said. "And fifty more are on the way."

This was not good news. The camp was full of sacks of rice, boxes of ammunition, and cases of trade goods, batteries and drums of fuel. I had to make a decision right away.

"John," I said. "Barilae is the key to our survival. We must raid Kokiso before Hashimoto's reinforcements arrive. With the help of Barilae and his spearmen, we can do it."

The fight Rocky longed for was drawing near and he was dressed for the part. With his slouch hat and khaki shorts, a Japanese tunic, puttees and split-toed boots, and native charms around his neck, the sergeant-major was an arresting sight.

"Stone the crows," John said. "One look at you, Rocky, and the Japs will die of fright."

But Rocky, a faraway look in his eyes, was checking his prize weapon, a captured Arisaka rifle that was the envy of every gun-toting member of our group. Satisfied, he laid it aside and picked up his Nambu pistol ─ another of his trophies. He peered along the barrel, tested the gun's weight and then stuck the weapon in his belt.

His preparations done, Rocky flexed his arms, inspected both biceps with a narrow-gazed frown, then straightened to attention.

I stepped over and offered him my hand; but Rocky, already in hunting mode, needed no formal farewell. Tense and silent, the big fellow picked up his gun and slipped into the jungle.

The next thing on my mind was security. We urgently needed to move to a safer place.

Shifting camp was backbreaking work, but we all pitched in, and after an energy-sapping day, all our supplies were cached by late afternoon. But still we couldn't rest. Aware how quickly night falls in the tropics, I called for a final effort, and an hour later, at that compelling moment when the first, dim stars appear and the birds fall silent, we put the finishing touches to the last sleeping shelter, slumped down in our sweat-soaked clothing and stretched our weary limbs.

We dared not light a fire, so there was no cup of tea to dispel the chill of the evening. Gloomily, we poked spoons into cans of bully beef, tore open packs of navy biscuits, shoved the food into our mouths and washed it down with sterilized water, followed up with stale block chocolate.

John clambered to his feet and raised his pannikan. "Gentlemen," he intoned, "will you join me in a toast to the magnificent chef of Chez Nakanai!"

Next morning, top item on my agenda was the rendezvous with Rocky and Barilae. I needed to take a man with me and I chose Birua, mainly because I wanted to keep an eye on him.

Birua and I slogged down to the lowlands and met Rocky, Barilae and the fifty spearmen he had gathered, at a crossroad half an hour's march from Kokiso.

The mountain men, shouting and brandishing spears, were ready for action, and my first lesson for them in the art of war was to tell them to shut up. Then, when Barilae told me they thought their war paint and spells made them bulletproof, we needed a lesson about that, too, which Rocky followed up with a spirited harangue, the gist of which was that they should listen for commands.

"Here goes nothing," I said. "I hope our mountain friends are up to the task."

We set off for Kokiso, marching single file in three columns, with Rocky's squad in front, Barilae at the head of the second line, and Birua and I leading the last column.

We trekked through the heat of the day, and I liked what I saw. Marching quietly in their lines, the mountain men showed themselves to be more than the tough-as-teak bushmen I knew them to be, but apt learners as well, and as our column snaked its way over ridges and along valleys, they began to look like seasoned soldiers.

We surrounded Kokiso late that afternoon, expecting to attack before nightfall; but the main force had already arrived. Silently we looked down on the village from our hiding place on the ridge and observed the strength and disposition of the enemy.

Hashimoto's men rounded up a bunch of village leaders, bound them and threw them down at their commander's feet. He began to interrogate the prisoners, but changed his mind and ordered them to be beaten. The marines beat the mountain men mercilessly, but that wasn't enough to satisfy their brutal urges. A couple of hotheads ran three natives through with bayonets and pandemonium broke out.

Rocky grinned at me and I grinned back. Not a word passed between us. Blind Freddy could see this was the perfect moment to attack.

I nodded to Rocky and he slipped away to tell Barilae and his spearmen to get ready.

I steadied my nerves by following the regular motion of the second hand on my watch. As fifty-five seconds ticked up, Barilae burst forth with a cry to freeze the blood of any mortal, and spearmen flooded into the village. Hashimoto and his troops got off a few quick shots then ran for cover, wild-eyed and screaming.

Steely-nerved mountain men dashed over to the prisoners, cut their bonds and pulled them back behind Barilae's squad as it advanced, but the enemy formed a ragged line and returned fire. The staccato volleys ripping the air unnerved the spearmen and they ran for the forest.

From our hideout by the roadhead, where we lay covering the enemy's escape route, Rocky, Birua and I watched in horror as the battle turned.

Birua stared at me with eyes like saucers. He tried to scream, but no sound came.

Rocky looked at me with an unasked question in his eyes.

"The hunter has become the hunted, big feller," I said. "Let's make like a snake and slither away," I said, but even as the words left my lips the Nakanai spearmen charged back, sending Hashimoto and his marines dashing straight for the thicket where we were hiding.

Rocky stood up and blazed away and that gave me a couple of seconds to take stock.

"Rocky," I yelled. "Go back to Kupi and tell John we lost. Birua and I will cover you."

Ducking and weaving, Rocky took off for the coconut palms, needle-nosed bullets zinging and pinging about his head as Hashimoto's marines peppered the undergrowth.

Seizing the moment, Birua threw his rifle aside and raised his hands in surrender.

The treacherous act diverted the enemy's attention, and Rocky made good his escape.

But Birua's surrender didn't stop Hashimoto. All funk and fury, he pointed his pistol at Birua and that drove him to greater drama.

"Me... your friend!" Birua shouted, hand on chest, then cringed, eyes screwed shut.

When no shot came he opened his eyes, smiled and pointed to the place where I was hiding.

"Australia soldier... no good... here!" he cried.

I threw my rifle aside, raised my hands and stood up. For a moment Hashimoto and I locked eyes, but as he shaped to speak a burly marine smashed his rifle into my rib cage and, before I could draw breath, kicked me to the ground.

Hashimoto sent his men charging back to the village and the mountain men melted into the forest. And for that I bear them no grudge, for Barilae, who had only spears against rifles, had performed a miracle by rescuing his kin. I was glad he didn't know I'd been captured, for I am certain that had he known, he would have risked his life for me.

Hashimoto's detachment lost no time hitting the trail back to Silanga. My ears rang as the scouts, as jumpy as cats, sprayed the bush with bullets, and searing pain shot through my chest as my captors, prodding me forward at bayonet point, laid into me with their boots every time I stumbled.

As for Birua, they treated him more as foe than friend. He started at the front of the column, but Hashimoto pushed him down and the marching men trampled him so savagely he had no choice but to scramble on hands and knees to the rear, where he limped along, bruised and humiliated.
Chapter twenty-two

Ruth

Recollections

At Silanga, Hashi and I spoke with hundreds of settlers from the mountains, but we couldn't pick up any trace of his grandfather. We crossed the river to another settlement and again drew a blank, so we trekked up to Umu, the first of the mountain villages.

According to Hashi's grandfather's diary, the Umu people warmly welcomed him and his squad, but a violent confrontation erupted when a pair of marines spotted a ragged edge of white silk sticking out of the ground and dug up a bag of rice wrapped in a parachute.

Pandemonium broke loose.

Cowering at bayonet point, the villagers were herded into a makeshift stockade and questioned, but not one of them would say anything about the coastwatchers.

In frustration, Hashimoto ordered his men to burn all the houses and beat up anyone who resisted. He forbade the villagers to go to their garden shelters, and that night and the next they shivered under ledges and trees while their tormentors slept in tents.

On the third day, Hashimoto felt a late surge of pity and tried to mollify the villagers by handing out rice and sending his marines to help them build shelters.

"It's nice to know your grandad was kind," I said.

"I'm not so sure it was anything to commend," Hashi replied. "Grandad had time to reconsider. He knew he was at the furthest extent of his knowledge of the mountains and would have reasoned, quite correctly, that to go any further he would need guides and carriers, in a word, co-operation."

"Did it work?"

"They put on a good show of forgiving him. Grandad's men had guns and they had only spears. It made perfect sense to keep on good terms."

"Well at least he had the courage to press on into the mountains," I suggested.

"Again, I'm not convinced," Hashi said. "I'm sure he was as brave as any honorable officer. But what we see here may be lack of awareness. He couldn't have known the extent to which, in their tough, hard world, the mountain men disputed over every resource, from land to women. But since fighting uses energy needed to produce food, they had come to place a high value on indirect forms of attack, such as plausibility."

"I don't get it," I said.

"Among the mountain men, a leader was not just a strong man, good with a spear. Leaders had to be smart too. A truly great leader was one who could convince an enemy to trust him, plying him with gifts and food until he relaxed, so that he could then be slaughtered as easily as a cassowary caught in a thicket.

"I see what you mean."

"But do you, Ruth? You're easily influenced. I've read the documents Justin gave me. And I saw what that old lady at Jacquinot Bay was doing."

I couldn't believe that Hashi could so quickly turn into such a patronizing jerk.

"Her name is Miriam," I snapped. "And what exactly was she doing, according to you?"

"She was using every trick in the book... stories... photos... tears... glances," he said.

I was fit to be tied. "Now the idealist has become a cynic," I yelled.

"There's a difference between sentiment and romance," he said. "To me you're not just some random girl."

"Go on," I said. "See if you can talk your way out of this," I huffed.

"I'm just sharing the truth as best I see it, Ruth."

"According to the light you've got?"

"Exactly."

"And that is?"

"Our experience: documents, dates, places, logic, reason."

"And what is your reason telling you."

"It will only make you angrier," he said.

"Try anyway."

"Okay then, I'll give it my best shot. As I see it, what Miriam said was nothing more than the testimony of a young girl grown old, about what she recalls of her first love, the man who saved her when she was a refugee. I know what she says about Rex. I've read the documents."

"And is what she says true?"

"Not exactly, Ruth. Rex was a brave man, an officer who did his duty as best he could. No more, no less. Forget the exploits and the miracles."

My eyes welled with tears. "Is that where we're up to then, Hashi?"

"What's wrong?"

"These last couple of days on the road, it's come home to me, Hashi. We hardly know each other. And we're not very suited."

Hashi drummed his fingers and sighed.

"Spoken like a woman, Ruth," he said.

"What?"

"Can't you see these things will work themselves out?" he said.

"Not if that's your attitude," I snapped. "But first things first. Rex and Miriam, I mean. Agreeing about them would be a good start. Every photo, every diary entry, every map, every report is a piece of the puzzle, and we need to sort it together."

"And every cup of coffee?"

"That too, Hashi," I said, "along with every drop from that hip flask of yours. You are truly infuriating. If we don't talk this thing through, you and I have no future."

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me," he said. "If we're to be together I need to know why you have kept a place in your heart for a man who's not even here."

The friendship was patched up for the moment, but something else was worrying me. Every night as I drifted to sleep and every morning before I awoke, Hashi would take out documents and maps, and I had the distinct impression he didn't want me to see them. In idle moments he'd flip through photos: pictures of his grandfather posing with his marines or with local people. And those photos and the diary were all I was allowed to see.

As we approached Umu a group of men greeted us on the trail and escorted us to the village. It was a warm welcome. Everyone, young and old, lined up to shake our hands. Girls rushed off to fetch mats, women set steaming parcels of food before us, and children entertained us with songs.

After dinner Hashi went into a huddle with the senior men, and I passed the time laughing and joking with the women.

As the afternoon light faded, a crowd of whooping, chattering kids showed us to a shabby hut at the edge of the village, which the tultul had set aside for us. The humidity was getting to me. "Hashi, I need to rest," I said. "And I could do with a little privacy."

Hashi eased my backpack from my shoulders and laid out a bedroll.

"Rest your bones," he said. "I'll make tea."

An old woman shouted at the kids and they scampered off. I smiled a 'thank you' and she smiled back. Hashi pointed to the empty billy and the old woman shouted another command. A group of girls headed off to the creek and returned a few minutes later with four buckets of water. The old woman clicked her tongue and the girls cleared out.

I freshened up and lay down for a rest, while Hashi, a truly talented fire-maker, coaxed a bundle of kindling into flame. I watched through the doorway as he tied the billy to a green sapling. I looked forward to a quiet chat over a cup of tea. It felt good when he took care of me, and I wanted to cozy up.

"Hashi," I ventured. "What did you arrange with the men?"

Hashi cleared his throat and examined his boots. "Ruth, I've something to tell you," he said. "The local leaders and I are going to have a discussion this afternoon in the men's house, and another tomorrow."

"Did you say the men's house? Am I not welcome?"

"It's the culture, Ruth. Men have a special meeting place. No women allowed."

"Hashi," I groaned, "right now I feel like punching you in the face."

On the evening of our second day at Umu, Hashi went with three local boys to look for shrimp in the creek. I wanted to go too, but he didn't like the idea and I spent the evening alone.

I tried to sleep, but with every gust of the wind the thatching rustled with an unnerving rat-gnawing sound. Desperate for something to do, I lit the pressure lamp, thinking a little reading may steady my nerves, so I went to Hashi's pack to get his grandfather's diary. But instead of the diary I found a bound report I'd never seen before. It was a business proposal by Save Amazonia, the NGO that sent Hashi to Brazil.

As I read I went from curiosity, to shock, to fury.

The document was a proposal to clear fell the forests of Central Nakanai and defraud the villagers. And Hashi was in the conspiracy up to his elbows.

I read every word, hoping to find something to reassure me, something that would put Hashi in the clear, but every page cast a longer shadow.

I thought I had seen every kind of skullduggery in my years on Wall Street, but there the victims of unscrupulous bankers and rogue traders often as not had so much money they could afford to lose some, but the plan I was reading was a malicious, tawdry, fraudulent scheme to trick the poorest of the poor out of benefitting from the only resource they had, their land and tress growing on it.

Forests in Papua New Guinea were a sitting duck, according to the report. The beginning of a comprehensive national timber policy was in place, it said, but those few officials who tried to enforce standards could not withstand the tide of corruption.

Time and again, it turned out, customary landowners sold their forests for logging, and when the money they received for their timber was gone, they had the rest of their lives to contemplate the devastation that remained.

I cried and raged. The con was on, and here's how it worked.

The executives of Faraway Timber Resources, new arrivals in the lucrative, murky world of Papua New Guinea commercial logging, had learned well from their competitors. They had surveyed the forests of the Nakanai Mountains and, rubbing their hands in anticipation of wealth to come, loaned Save Amazonia, Hashi's NGO operating under the name World Timber, ten million US dollars with no fixed terms, all of it money for bribes.

Save Amazonia would skim 10% off the top, a cool million, and then with the balance left after paying off politicians and officials, they would set up companies of local shareholders to operate for them at arm's length.

World Timber as puppet and front man, would arrange for professionals from the initiating company to supply specialized assistance to the local companies, with money for services rendered being paid back to the initiating company, out of which they would grab a handful as it passed through their hands before passing it back to Save Amazonia.

The players shared the same lawyers, the same accountants and the same forestry consultants, all under the watchful eye of a single company secretary, a shadowy figure with multiple guises.

It was as diabolical as it was perfect.

The people would trust Save Amazonia and the Faraway Timber Resources people could feel virtuous working with such an idealistic bunch. There was prestige to be had by dealing with World Timber, with its promises of a fairer future and endorsements from eminent international figures.

But what really stuck in my craw was the contract folded inside the back cover of the report that revealed Hashi as the bagman. He personally was going to cream 15% off the million bucks headed Save Amazonia's way, a cool $150,000.

You secretive bastard! A hundred and fifty grand should fund your beachcombing very nicely for a few more years!

I read on.

Faraway Timber's move into the mountains was a two-pronged attack of under-payment and transfer pricing. By under-grading and under-measuring, they would reduce the declared value of exported timber to as little as half its true value. The local timber companies would be at a huge disadvantage, and that was only the half of it: By orchestrating the transfer of profits using World Timber as a decoy company trading first nationally and then offshore, the parent company would pay almost no tax as it pocketed the lion's share.

In New York I had learnt to recognise a scam. Now, here I was in a thatch hut, looking at a scheme calculated to defraud people with almost nothing and no power to defend themselves. The cold-blooded heartlessness of it made insider trading look like child's play.

Faraway Timber Resources planned to make transfer pricing and misdeclaration standard operating procedures, joining the ranks of disreputable predecessors who had defrauded landowners and governments throughout the developing world.

The sad reality dawned on me, that the resources rip-off is widespread, it pays off, and, on the rare occasions they are caught, the elusive players are too powerfully connected to be punished

I threw Hashi's pack and the thump of it hitting the wall startled a bat from the dark recess of the rafters. It zoomed around the room, brushed past my face, flitted around and landed momentarily on my back. I brushed it off and it flew away into the night, but for the next hour my skin crawled with the sensation of its tiny claws.

I had been sitting for so long my back was imprinted with the crisscross pattern of the woven bamboo wall, but I had reached the last page, so I rubbed my eyes and carried on reading.

"Malaysia is logged out and Indonesia allows only processed timber to be exported, but PNG still looks good," I read. "Few restrictions are in place," ran the conclusion. "Corrupt decision-makers will delay reform for years. And there is a good supply of logs to be exploited. This nation is the next large source of tropical timber in the Indo-Pacific."

I put the file down, rubbed the tears from my eyes and curled up in foetal position. And as I lay there, the thought of revenge came as a softly as a silken voice.

You may not be able to stop this racket, but you can make him pay for his lies.

I blew the lantern out, wrapped a laplap around my shoulders, and sat down in the darkness, facing the door.

When the moon was high, long after the last of the babies had ceased crying for the breast, I heard voices. Hashi came in with three young men, all smiles and laughter, and plonked a bucket of shrimps in front of me. I had dozed off but now I was wide awake. Hashi gave me that stupid grin men give you when they think you should be proud of them. Then he saw the papers strewn around me.

"I see you've been into my stuff."

"Hashi, I know everything," I said, my eyes flashing.

"My private papers," he said.

The anger in my eyes forced him to lower his gaze.

He started to talk, rapidly, as if to justify himself, this man who had advised me never to complain and never explain. The words came tumbling out.

It's not what it seems, Ruth," he said. "This nation's timber resources are screwed. The country can't fend off the onslaught. But think global, Ruth. The Amazon Basin is huge. Even after years of intensive logging, vast areas of forest still remain. And we can save them.

"By acting as middleman here, I can earn big bucks for Save Amazonia. But it's not just the cash, Ruth. Think strategy. The big resources companies will see what I do here and may let me in on their dirty secrets. First I'll infiltrate them, then I will expose them, I promise you that.

"The denuded hills, valleys and mountain slopes of Central Nakanai will make great footage for the documentary I intend to make. I'll blow the whistle on their heartless scams, and a wave of anger will roll around the world, a tsunami of resistance that will gather strength as it goes, and it will be you and I who started it."

"You, not we," I snapped. "Set a thief to catch a thief."

"Ruth, it's for the greater good."

"What about your cut?"

"That builds credibility. I don't want the money. Everything goes back to Save Amazonia."

"And the mountain people?" I asked.

"They are called upon to make a sacrifice for the good of the whole world, Ruth."

I couldn't speak. My man's explanation stacked up logically, sort of, but showed him up as a narcissistic fixer, a dangerous do-gooder of the first order.

"Can't you see, Ruth?" he asked, eyes pleading, brow furrowed."

"Oh I can see alright. I can see. I can see you for who you are."

"And who am I?"

"You are one more lousy, deluded utopian," I snapped, "making a career of mending things on behalf of others, without their knowledge or request, no matter how much it hurts them."

Hashi fell to his knees and searched my face for forgiveness, but I was just getting started.

"The World has had enough Commissars and Obersturmführers," I yelled.

"Ruth, I've hurt you," he said.

I crouched by the door, my face a stone effigy.

"Please don't shut me out," he pleaded. "Talk to me, Ruth."

Call me weak, call me a turncoat, but at that moment I took the first step on the long road towards forgiveness. I hear you saying how deluded I am, what a traitor I am to my sex, and how little I know about calculating men, but for good or ill, and for the sake of the story, try to understand when I say that seeing Hashi kneeling and weeping, I felt sure he was truly contrite.

"I can see you are sorry, Hashi," I said, "but contrition only leads to better things if sorrow is leavened with faith. Clichéd as it may sound, you have to want to change and believe you can."

"Believe me, Ruth, that's what I want. More than anything.

"Well then, you can start with a couple of things that I want more than anything."

"Name them, Sweetheart."

"I want you to tear up your contract."

"Ruth, these guys are Asian Mafia!"

"The more fool you, for playing in the wrong sand lot," I snapped.

"We'd have to disappear..."

"We?"

"Please, Ruth, stick with me."

"I will say this much, Hashi: Running from the Asian Mafia sounds like more fun than sitting behind a computer screen in a New York skyscraper."

"Is that a 'yes'?" asked Hashi, hardly daring to breathe.

I couldn't believe what I'd just said, and I needed a face-saver. "It's a definite 'maybe'," I sniffed. "One you don't deserve."

Hashi took my hands in his. "Okay!" he yelled.

"Hold on a minute, buddy. There are some more things you must do."

"Such as?"

"Top of my list is the timber negotiations; then us and our security. In that order."

"Don't talk in riddles, Ruth."

"If you can't see it, I'll spell it out," I snapped. "Today you cancel all timber talks, tonight you work out how to make us disappear, and tomorrow at breakfast you tell me how we're going to do that and we'll get started.

"You don't soften easily.'

"Tell someone who cares!"

"How long will you be angry?"

"Years. Maybe forever."

"So we're finished?"

"Not entirely," I explained. "Practical solutions start now. Mellowing will start in a couple of days. Reconciliation will take longer, to forgive longer again, and forgetting, if it ever happens, will take years, Hashi."

"Maybe. Not entirely. Almost. Where does this kind of talk leave me?"

"Hashi, you are unbelievably self-centered. This is not about you, it is about me; and maybe some day, with goodwill and good management it will be about us. But never again will it be all about you."

The meeting that afternoon was the ideal platform for Hashi to call off the timber deal.

Usually at meetings, Hashi would sit with the elders, but today he needed everyone's attention; so, the better to be heard, he stood on the dais on the bamboo stage the villagers had erected,

"I know you're all desperate for money," Hashi began. "But think about your children and your children's children. If you sell everything now, what will there be left for them?"

A murmur ran through the meeting.

"I've cancelled all timber deals," Hashi announced.

Youths listening at a respectful distance abandoned their shady sitting places and sprinted off to spread the news, and soon people came streaming from all directions, shouting, gesticulating and waving machetes.

Hashi pressed on, raising his voice above the din.

"The company that wants your timber intends to lock you in at a low price and chop all your trees down. Cedar, kwila, erima, malasi, rosewood, taun, teak, walnut, ironbark, red gum, spotted gum; they'll chop them all down. Business people in faraway lands will pay high prices for your hardwoods and fine-textured timbers, to make luxury furniture, expensive blinds, billiard cues and paneling, and from your softwoods they will make packing crates and plywood. Everything fetches a good price, but you are at the beginning of the supply chain, and you'll hardly see any of the money. As we speak, middlemen from Brussels, to New York, to Kuala Lumpur, Guangzhou and Port Moresby, are lining up to grab some for themselves.

A chant started among the crowd; softly at first, then louder until it howled like a monsoon squall. " _Salim diway! Salim diwai!_ Sell the timber!" they chanted.

Hashi pressed on. "If you sell everything now, you will have nothing to sell later. How do you know what's a fair price? Have you been to Asia? Do you know how companies work?"

The Luluai leapt up and waved his arms. "Yesterday he wanted our timber. Today he's changed his mind!" he yelled.

Time for me to weigh in.

I took a breath and climbed to the podium, waving my arms like a local orator.

"Warriors of the mountains," I yelled. "I know about companies. In my land of America there is a great city with more people than there are starlings in your trees. I work in a big company. I know how the timber buyers think. Our cousin Hashi is just a forester, and he's only young. He didn't realize these things until I told him."

A hush fell over the crowd. In the mountains, only men spoke in public. But I was no ordinary woman: I was a _misis_ ─ a very tall one.

I held my breath. Would they believe me? The meeting was in the balance.

A young man by the name of Gabriel Pasila stepped up beside me and threw his lanky arms around me in a stout, sideways hug, still facing the crowd. "Listen to me," he cried, " _Mi kanaka nating_ , I am a simple village man, but I know this woman and I trust her. My grandfather fought for you, and she's here today to fight for us all."

That was all that was needed. The show was over for the day. People murmured assent, turned aside in knots and groups, pulled out their tobacco and betel nut, and turned their attention to mundane things and the constant, small intrigues of village life.

"What's your name?"

"Gabriel Pasila."

"Was your grandfather Maekel Pasila?"

"Yes, Misis."

"I've heard stories. Good man, your grandfather. Seems you inherited his lanky arms, luckily for us all. Things could have turned ugly, but your hug saved the day."

When the news spread throughout the mountains, people streamed down to Silanga, and by the end of the week the mission grounds looked like an army camp.

Hashi's message was getting through. The lowland and hinterland villagers wanted to renegotiate, while the settlement villages east of the river had taken their timber off the market, making for a tense atmosphere with the settlement villages to the West and their kinfolk in the mountains, who wanted the original deal.

Men waved fists and women shrieked. Some of the senior men moved quietly among the crowd, asking their kinsmen to surrender their bushknives for the duration of the meeting.

"Hashi," I said, "this thing's going to blow over in a couple of hours with just a bit of push and shove."

"Yes, with a little help from us, it will. We need to make a symbolic gesture to the ones who still want to sell."

"And we'll need a face-saver for the ones who've given up, Hashi."

"There's the renegotiation group, too, Ruth. We have to let them down gently."

"That's three feasts, Hashi."

"Absolutely. With the cost of catering and compensation payments, it won't be cheap."

"Expensive but worth it, Hashi. Everyone's sick of the tension. The feasts will settle things down," I said, and no sooner had the words left my mouth than all hell broke loose.

Four police wagons careered into the settlement, sirens blaring, and screeched to a halt. The doors swung open and an assortment of uniformed police and members of a _raskol_ gang spilled out.

The police ringed the crowd like dolphins trapping tuna, and the _raskol_ s weighed in.

They pushed and bullied their way to the delegates who wanted to call the timber deal off, threw the leaders down and beat them brutally.

I heard a shout behind me. On the far side of the clearing I saw a band of youths wielding bushknives run into the crowd, led by a stout young man with a black bandana and legs like tree trunks.

The _raskol_ s fled and the guards fanned out in a protective screen, but the young man with the black bandana was a step ahead. Shouting and pointing, he split the charge and outflanked the police, sheepdogging them away from the crowd.

The police commander had to think quickly. Given that a volley into the crowd was not an option in this blood-for-blood culture, he wisely opted to regroup for an orderly retreat, but he was too late. All down the line, panic-stricken constables were breaking ranks and making a run for the police vehicles.

In two minutes the police and their goons were gone, leaving three villagers unconscious, thirteen dazed, bleeding and bruised, god knows how many broken noses, collar bones, ribs and limbs, an old woman and a child who'd been run over, a nursing mother who'd been knocked flat, any number of distressed pregnant women, and a clamoring, enraged crowd.

The youth with the black bandana beamed at us.

"Who are you?" asked Hashi.

"We're the Catalina boys and I'm Pius Barilae, the leader."

"Promise me this, Barilae. Never use your knife to kill or maim."

The young man grinned. "I wouldn't dream of it. The University would expel me."

"Barilae ...," I reflected. "I've heard stories...,"

Hashi's dark eyes almost bored through me.

"Ruth, you don't think...."

I do think. This is Samo's grandson."

But with wounded to tend, chatting and reminiscing were not on the agenda. Hashi, I, Barilae and the whole Catalina gang bent to the task. We tore laplaps and shirts into bandages, doused cuts with Hashi's whisky, and set broken limbs binding them to bamboo strips with liana vines.

In less than five minutes we were covered in blood.

"Ugly, Hashi."

"We're the lucky ones, Ruth."

"How so?"

"In a manner of speaking, Ruth, it was us who got them into this."

"Us!" I snapped. "Surely you mean 'I.' "

"Yeah. Sorry."

"And what's this 'manner of speaking' nonsense? Did you or did you not enter this place as harmless as the bubonic plague?

Hashi stared at his toes. "Let's not argue, Ruth. I'm still smarting from the eyeballing the police commander gave me."

"Omigod, you are self-centered beyond belief, Hashi!" I yelled. "Around us lie maimed people and you're talking about how the commander creeped you out. I've a mind to give you now the beating you missed then."

"Are you still angry?"

"Damn straight I am."
Chapter twenty-three

Miriam

Extract from a transcript of a recording by Luke Freeman

Combined Allied Intelligence Rabaul November 1945

Rocky returned alone. He crept into camp, flopped down on a log and stared into the campfire. We'd never seen him like that.

Marita gave him navy biscuits and a pannikan of tea, and when he revived a little, we plied him with questions until night fell.

We squatted around the fire, each to our own thoughts. All around the circle, men eased quietly to the edge where the darkness overtook the flickering light of the fire.

Around nine o'clock, John kicked dirt on the embers and told us to turn in.

I couldn't sleep. A rescue was on my mind but I knew John wouldn't allow it. I needed my sister.

"Marita, wake up," I whispered. "I'm going to slip away and find Rex."

"Not without me," she said, and flew into action. She gathered bully beef, navy biscuits, a saucepan and a box of matches, the bare essentials, moving quickly and quietly.

When I produced my lipstick, her face reddened.

"What do you think you're doing?" she whispered, her voice low and hoarse.

I flashed my eyelashes. "Camouflage," I rasped, mocking her stage whisper. "We have no charcoal, but red's as good as black."

Glowering, Marita allowed me to mark her face with stripes, and then did the same for me.

I strapped on the haversack. Marita grabbed a towel and a machete and set off in the lead.

We slithered down the damp trail to the lowlands. We saw nothing but shadows and those shadows must have been able to talk, because next afternoon Barilae slipped out of the rainforest at the last fork in the trail. He led us to a hiding place in the bush at Silanga, where we lay for two hours swatting insects and listening to the birds and crickets.

A scream ripped the air.

"That's Rex," I cried.

Marita nodded and pressed a finger to pursed lips.

I bobbed up to take a look, but Barilae pushed me back down. "Hashimoto's men are beating Rex," he growled.

We crept to a ledge overlooking the village and peered through the undergrowth.

Hashimoto was pacing, hands clasped behind his back, and glancing about nervously.

"Oh God, make him call his men off," I sobbed.

Not long later, Hashimoto did call them off, but not before they'd thrashed Rex senseless.

Hashimoto's marines wrapped Rex in a length of parachute silk and carried him up to a limestone cave. They cut and stripped branches to make stakes, then set and tied the stakes to form a palisade across the entrance of the cave, posted a sentry, and left.

Things looked grim, but Barilae was not about to give up. "That sentry is my meat," he announced. "But first we wait."

Barilae was as good as his word. Around midnight, taking advantage of the darkness before the moon rose, he slithered away like a bush python, and a few minutes later we heard a muffled cry.

Marita and I ran to help. We tugged at the palisade, but the stakes held fast. Barilae wedged his broad shoulder behind the first post, creating just enough space for me to squeeze through. I pushed out and Marita squeezed through, then we both pushed, making space for Barilae to push his way through.

We felt our way in the dark interior of the cave. We feared the worst, but when Barilae lit a match we saw that Rex was alive. Although bound with the blood-soaked strips of parachute silk, he had managed to wriggle into a sitting position.

"What they have done to you!" I cried.

Marita stood rubbing her arm, the muscles of her face twitching.

Barilae, however, bent to the task of untying Rex and called us to help.

My hands shook and tears ran down my cheeks, but Barilae, urgent and focused, would not suffer a moment's delay. Rex was only three-fourths conscious, but Barilae, ignoring his leader's wounds and bruises, urged him up and pulled him to his feet. "We're not done yet," he growled, and bundled us all out of there.

We set off at a smart pace and made it to the top of the ridge without incident. But Rex's naked arse, pale and white, was shining like a beacon in the moonlight. I pulled him behind a bush and covered his bare buttocks with my haversack.

"Missis," Barilae hissed, his face contorted. "We have to go."

Rex complained that we could still see his interesting bits, but Barilae wasn't in a mood for jokes and slapped the smile from my face.

We fled eastward and didn't stop until we reached the first village of the Meramera people, two day's march from Silanga and a days' march short of the garrison at Ulamona.

We trailed in, exhausted and disheveled.

An old man sitting under his house was the first to spot us.

"Lisabet!" he yelled. "Our kiap is back."

An old woman emerged from the cook house and hobbled towards us, arms outstretched. " _Autila!_ " she cried. "Masta Rex, two ladies and a mountain cousin! Come sit in the shade."

Her husband danced around us in a little circle.

"Sekaraia," she snapped. "You don't have time for that."

The old man unrolled a mat and set water, betel nut and tobacco before us. Then he took his tritons horn shell from its rack and blew three blasts.

Villagers streamed in from all directions, and when they were assembled Sekaraia stepped up for the welcoming speech.

"Now you know I was right when I said we had to hang on," he said. "See for yourself. Rex is back."

That night, we smoked, chewed betel nut and swapped yarns around the fire, with our eyes watering as the sea breeze blew the smoke in our faces.

The moon set and darkness descended. Tired muscles loosened, eyelids became heavy, and by midnight everyone was asleep.

Everyone except Rex and me.

Soothed by the gentle lapping of the waves, we lay in each other's arms and absorbed the silence of the sky.

"Staring at stars gives pause for thought," Rex said.

And stare at stars is what we did until morning. That and a couple of other things.
Chapter twenty-four

Rocky

Extract from a transcript of interview with Luke Freeman Combined Allied Intelligence

Rabaul November 1945 Tokpisin translation Australian New Guinea Administrative Unit

In ten hours I completed a trek that would take most men a day and a half, only to learn when I reached Kupi that Hashimoto's push into the mountains had forced the coastwatchers to take refuge on a ridge to the west. The next two hours almost broke me, but I pushed on in the rain and dragged my aching body into camp as the sun set over the brow of the ridge.

John was squatting under a tree, poring over a map laid out on the ground. In the twilight he was an easy mark and exhausted as I was I wasn't too tired to play creep up on the white man.

John grabbed his revolver and swung around. "Ferkraissake, Rocky," he yelled. "One of these days ..."

But the joke ended when I fainted.

John helped me up, took me to the command hut and gave me a cigarette and a tot of rum.

The story of Rex's capture tumbled out, and when I described how they bound Rex and led him away, John stood up slowly, like a tired old man and wiped his brow. I'd never seen him like that.

When I was done, he slumped back down and buried his face in his hands,

One by one the others gathered.

"Rex is gone and we will mourn him," John said. "But not right now. Hashimoto is on his way and you don't need me to tell you it's your arse on the line as much as mine. So get busy. Grab all the gear you can carry and cache it out of sight."

Hashimoto raided Kupi in the afternoon of the next day. It was Christmas Eve. For three days his men searched, and we watched helplessly from the other side of the valley as they burnt everything.

As for us, Hashimoto must have beaten a confession out of someone, for when they were done trashing the place, Hashimoto paraded his men, pointed in our direction and trained field glasses on the ridge where we lay hidden.

John took out his long-range binoculars and studied the enemy detachment. As he peered across the valley, he hummed a white man's tune, one I'd never heard.

"I hope that's some kind of _sanguma_ spell," I said. "I could some black magic about now."

John smiled. "Just a little tune called 'White Christmas'," he said.

_Japanese troops expected next day and my leader is singing!_ _Who will ever understand white men?_
Chapter twenty-five

John

Extract from a transcript of a recording by Luke Freeman

Combined Allied Intelligence Townsville May 1945

My first address as officer-in-charge was direct and to the point. Bloody Jim and his perfect recall: Months after we got home we had a beer one day and just for laughs he wrote my speech out from memory on the back of a coaster. Reading it now in the cold light of day I'm embarrassed; but for good or ill, here it is.

"Christmas Eve, gentlemen: Rex is in the hands of the Japanese and you are all now under my watchful eye. Tomorrow morning Hashimoto and his men will charge up the ridge, so we'll deal with that first and think about Rex later. In the days to come you'll find me an easy man to speak with, but right now I want action, not talk. Every one of you has his assigned task. No questions? Good. Now piss off and get busy."

So there you have it; the whole thing ─ for the record.

We spent a miserable night with no fire. Next morning we tidied up so that the place looked like a bush glade. Then we secreted ourselves behind the brow of a low ridge that arced around the campsite like the rising sides of an amphitheatre, each of us within calling distance of the man on either side.

As silent as a ghost, Jim picked a sprig of wild croton and lobbed it over to me.

"Compliments of the Season," he called, barely mouthing the words.

"Merry Christmas," I whispered back.

I stroked the barrel of my rifle and wondered if my nerves were up to the wait. I tried to lie still, but ants and mosquitoes found the sweet smell of my sweat irresistible.

Rocky crept over to tell me about a way to trick Hashimoto.

Desperate to try anything that might get us off the hook, I gave him the green light.

Rocky slithered back to his hiding place and prepared a gift of tobacco to which he attached a note supposedly written by One Leg that said we had left to rendezvous with the Americans at Arawe. The idea was to leave the gift in a place where Hashimoto would be sure to see it, in the hope that having read the message he would call his men off.

With the smile of a hyena, Rocky slipped into the forest, taking with him the gift he'd prepared, and around mid-morning he returned.

"Did you pull it off, big feller?" I asked.

Rocky smiled, winked and gave me the thumbs-up. "Wait and see," he rasped.

An hour later, we watched in amazement as, over at Kupi, Hashimoto lowered the ensign and marched his men off back down the trail to Silanga.

"That qualifies as a merry Christmas," crowed John. He selected a promising looking crate, prized the lid off, and brought forth a bottle of whisky.

We formed a circle with Rocky in the middle. "Gentlemen," I said. "I give you Father Christmas."

John rummaged again in the bottom of the crate and produced a can of ox tongue, a carton of navy biscuits, a tin of jam and a can of butter. "Christmas dinner is served," he yelled.

In the afternoon, John paid a furtive visit to a stash he had squirreled away in a thicket behind a coachwood tree, and came back with cigarettes and matches.

"I ought to bloody court-martial you," I growled, but as the evening mist rose from the valley and we enjoyed a soothing cigarette by the campfire, I chose to overlook the matter.

"You know," John said with an exaggerated sigh and a feigned, faraway look, "waking to the prospect of one's imminent death has a certain _je ne sais quoi._ Don't you feel invigorated?"

"Speak for yourself," Jim scoffed. "I shat my pants."

The moon settled ever-lower towards the ridgeline and finally disappeared behind it, and as the shadow of the flames of the fire danced on our faces, we pulled our laplaps around our shoulders and slept the deep and grateful sleep of the reprieved.

Next morning, as the sun peeked over the eastern ridge, we hit the trail back to Kupi.

It was a sultry day and we slogged our way down the ridge and up the other side in a lather of sweat.

Dark clouds rolled in from the northwest and I urged the men to pick up the pace.

"What's the rush?" quipped John. "One way or the other, we're still wet."

We made it to Kupi, and even had time to hoist the Little Bull ensign and enjoy a tot of rum before the first drops of rain fell.

When the rain cleared in the afternoon, I called a meeting to plan our next move. The men were full of comments, and I had to scribble furiously to keep up. On a fresh page I wrote the heading 'debit' and opposite it the heading 'credit.'

On the debit page I wrote: Rex captured; dried and canned food stocks lost; generator, batteries, petrol destroyed. Then, on the credit side I wrote: team in good shape; Kupi camp secured; caches of taro and sweet potato intact; teleradio, medical kit and emergency packs intact.

On balance, things were not too bad, and we should have been filled with hope, but isolation and boredom are insidious foes, and as we sat in our mountain hideout day after day with little more to do than burn leeches off our ankles and lance the mounds in our skin where bush mites burrowed in, a spirit of depression gripped us, so insidious that not even the announcement of the American landing at Cape Gloucester lifted our spirits when the news came crackling through the airwaves.

My mind started to work against me and I began to doubt the loyalty of the mountain men, but things took a turn for the better when the tultul of Tii village strutted into camp unannounced. I was so weak with fever I could hardly stand, but the stocky little fellow was too delighted to notice such a minor detail.

"We thought the Japs had killed you," he yelled.

My head was throbbing fit to burst. "Steady" I said. "No need to shout."

The tultul hugged me close. I was a head taller and broader in the chest, but the strong little warrior strained and heaved until he succeeded in lifting my feet from the ground. "I bolehoho my brother," he shouted, "alive and victorious!"

Jim brought tea and biscuits and the tultul released me. As we chatted, sipped tea, chewed betel nut and smoked, I took a long look at this man who, although armed with nothing more than a spear and possessing almost no worldly goods, could look me in the eye with pride and confidence, and a spark of renewed confidence fanned into flame.

The tultul's visit presented me with a great opportunity, for every word I said would be relayed to every ridge and valley throughout the mountains. So I called a meeting and sat the tultul front and centre.

"Gentlemen," I began, "I am confident every one of you would volunteer for a rescue mission to bring Rex back, but that would leave the camp undefended. There has to be a better way and there is. Tonight Rocky will sneak down to the enemy outpost at Silanga. He'll size up Hashimoto's strength and preparedness, and when he returns we'll make our move."

Shortly after sunset, with neither the sound of a footfall nor the rustling of a bush, Rocky slipped away by the light of the moon and set out for Silanga.

The next day our loyal friend the tultul of Tii returned with big news from the lowlands. Barilae had descended on Kokiso with two hundred spearmen and executed everyone with loot from our camp. The mountain men had settled scores with the quislings.

"How many died?"

"Many," he said. "We didn't stop to count. The important thing is that milk-sop tultul and treacherous luluai got what they deserved. We tore the Japanese badges from their caps and speared those two lousy collaborators through the gut."

"Well done," I said.

The tultul leant on his spear and looked at me. "What now?"

"We march to Viraulu," I said.

Three days later, we went down to Kotou and picked our way eastward through steep gullies until we reached Viraulalu.

John rubbed his hands. "A child could defend this place," he crowed.

Rocky went to check out a gully that snaked northward, narrow and deep, and returned with an evil smirk. "Perfect," he announced.

The savage grin on Rocky's face could only mean bad news for someone, and I was curious to know who. "You mean perfect for hiding?" I asked, feigning innocence.

Rocky stuffed his mouth full of areca nut, betel leaf and lime, took a couple of chews, cleared his throat and sprayed the undergrowth with a thick stream of blood-red saliva. "I mean perfect for shooting every last one of Hashimoto's scabied dogs in the leg," he sniffed.

"I never took you for a man too squeamish to make the kill, big feller."

Rocky directed a disdainful look at me and spurted a stream of betel juice that splattered my boots with red droplets. "I will come back and slit their throats at leisure," he sniffed.

"And I personally with great satisfaction will slit yours if you spit on me again."

The police fell about laughing, but their sergeant had the last laugh. As agile as an ape, he grabbed his bushknife, charged into his squad and headlocked a pair of police, one under each arm, slashed the back of his knife across their throats, threw them down and struck a he-man pose.

We laughed fit to split.

John mollified the two fall guys with cigarettes and they joined in the merriment.

It being my duty as leader to ensure the camp was secure before nightfall, I told everyone to stop joking around and get back to work. Around the clearing, men bent their backs to their tasks and by late afternoon we had shelters and a cookhouse set up.

After supper, I issued a rum ration, and before the moon rose we drifted off to sleep, secure in the bosom of the Viraulu valley, with steep slopes guarding us like silent sentinels.

We were safe for the moment, but the enemy, desperate and in full retreat was about to pass through our patch. Arming the mountain men was the only way to go, but that that plan was still only an idea. Time was running out to get the weapons we needed and to train the warriors to use them, so I transmitted an urgent request for an air drop of arms and supplies, and asked Barilae to call every able-bodied man to muster at Kotou on the morning after the full moon.
Chapter twenty-six

Ruth

Letter to Justin

Hey there, old pal. You'll be pleased to know I'm now a card-carrying forest crusader. Now before you roll your eyes and say 'bloody Ruth', hear me out.

One day I got on my high horse and banged out a piece about shady timber deals. I sent the piece in to the Wall Street Journal expecting nothing, but a sub-editor rang saying they wanted to run it, and together we knocked it into shape. The article exposed the whole sordid racket from source to buyer, with names, places, facts and figures. The piece sent waves through the industry. You were in New Britain and missed all the drama. Throughout the world authorities cracked down on the illegal timber trade. Hashi and I had already cost the Asian Mafia millions of dollars of lost revenue in New Britain, and now I was hurting them again. They wanted to get even and they came after me, Justin. In hospital. Can you believe it!

"Gentleman to see you!" the nurse announced.

The visitor was an Asian gentleman about forty years old, smartly dressed in a suit with matching gloves and hat. He may have impressed the nurse, but I noticed a hint of arrogance in his bearing, and a shiver ran through me when I saw how quickly the smile faded from his face the moment the nurse left.

"You fancy yourself investigative journalist, Ms. Feingold," he said.

"I have a few contacts," I said.

The man's gaze narrowed to a laser stare. "My name is Mystery Huang," he said.

"Mr. Huang?"

"No. Mystery Huang."

"My friends, they read your article about timber, send me to find out how much you know."

"Why don't we start by you telling me who you are?"

"Secret!" he laughed. "Mystery, you get it?"

"Let me guess," I said. "Your friends are anonymous too."

"Of course."

"If they have no names then they are nobodies, and you can tell those nobodies they don't scare me."

Cursing, Huang drew a pistol and poked the muzzle in my face. "Next time I use this," he hissed, but I pushed him so hard I pulled the drip from my arm and he reeled back.

"Mystery man," I yelled, "go back and tell the people who sent you about the shitload of names, dates and purchases I have ─ details of bribes, proceeds of sales, shipment dates, names of receivers, names of middlemen, records of volumes of timber shipped ─ all tucked away in a safety deposit box with a note to the bank to give the key to Interpol if anything happens to me."

It was bare-faced bluff, but it was enough to put me back in control.

"You are helpless here," Huang snapped. "We can bribe nurses and doctors. They do what we say. Or we pay bad guys to beat you up."

I yelled, jammed down on the call button, hurled my laptop, and sent my tray, water jug and cup clattering to the floor with a sweep of my arm.

A nurse baled Huang up, but he muscled his way to the fire escape and made off.

The unit manager gave chase and a security guard joined in, followed by the overweight but surprisingly nimble nurse and a pair of fit young wardsmen.

A few minutes later the wardsmen came back with a pistol they found on the fire escape. They told me Huang fled on a motor cycle and would have made a clean getaway had it not been for a postman who swerved into his path. "How do you explain a guy like that?" they said.

"Two words," I replied. " _Elathon... angelous_ 'angels unawares.' "

Later we heard that Huang convinced the Police the whole affair was a misunderstanding. He hadn't caused the accident and there was nothing to link him to the pistol, so they let him go. But he won't be back.
Chapter twenty-seven

Miriam

Extract from a transcript of a recording by Luke Freeman

Combined Allied Intelligence Rabaul November 1945

Life was sweet at Sekaraia and Lisabet's hamlet by the sea. The villagers gave us pawpaws, bananas and coconuts and Lisabet creamed taro and tapioca and sweet potato from her garden and served it up by the basinful topped with roasted fish and fresh lobster.

Nourishing food and plenty of rest worked wonders for Rex, and by the beginning of the second week he was ready to return to the hills.

The morning was overcast on the day we left, and our subdued mood when we said farewell matched the gray gloom of the sky.

We walked along the beach for an hour, then turned inland and slogged our way into the foothills, following a shortcut Sekaraia told us about. Two hours later we picked up the main trail, which we followed for another hour, until we came to a flooded river.

The men felled a tree to serve as a makeshift bridge, and one by one we inched across. Rex lost his grip and tumbled down into the current, but managed to grab a branch and drag himself into shallow water. Rex lay dazed on the stony creek bed with water flowing around his head and shoulders. His right leg was bloody and swollen, and he groaned when he tried to move.

Barilae scrambled into the gully, stripped off his laplap, tore it into lengths and bound Rex's leg.

Marita and I grabbed a flask of water and climbed down to see if we could help.

Barilae grabbed Rex by one shoulder and motioned for us to take hold of the other. "Now," he yelled, and together we dragged Rex back up to the trail.

"That's the first problem solved," Marita said. "Now how will we get him back to Kupi?"

But the question went unanswered, for at that moment a tall man in Australian Navy uniform appeared on the path, flanked by armed natives.

He looked at us, then at Rex. "As I live and breathe," he declared. "It's my old pal, Rex Davidson!"

Barilae, chest heaving and muscles taut, raised his machete, but the newcomer just smiled.

"Lieutenant Paul Bondman, head of the Open Bay coastwatch."

The lieutenant spoke with a loud, confident voice. "We need to get your patient back to our camp," he said, and sent his men to cut saplings for a litter.

"My group is holed up in the hills by Mount Ulawon," he said. "We heard you were here so I came down."

The guards came back with the saplings and I stepped forward to see if there was anything I could do.

Bondman asked me my name, and said it back to me, salesman style. "Miriam," he said, "I reckon it was pretty damned inconsiderate of Rex to fall into the creek, wouldn't you agree?"

I was stuck for words, but at that moment Rex stirred and Bondman stepped over to check on him.

"What's happening at Kupi, Rex?" asked the lieutenant.

Rex raised himself on one elbow. "John's in charge," he said. "Rocky's there. Jim too. They'll be fine."

Bondman snorted. "An army man and a native police sergeant? I don't think so!"

"Two native sergeants," Rex said. "I neglected to mention a tough piece of work by the name of Maekel Pasila. He appeared one day out of nowhere and has been a big help."

"Even if he's the archangel Michael, they still need help up there. Let's get you fixed up, then you can take charge here, and I'll go back to Kupi to make sure things stay on track."

"Not my plan," Rex said.

"Doesn't matter," Bondman said. "You're incapacitated, and I'm the next senior officer on the island. It's up to me."

Rex's face flushed. "High command hasn't withdrawn my authority," he snapped. "Flights come through to pick up downed airmen and when the next one comes I'll be on it. Until then I give the orders. You'll keep watching the sea-lanes and John Loving will take the fight to the enemy in the mountains. That's how things will be until high command says otherwise."

Bondman sighed and raised his hands. "I can't reason with you, Rex," he said.

Blood was oozing down Rex's leg. He reached down and tried to wipe the filthy bandage clean. It was an undignified sight, and I felt I should do something, so I stooped and wiped the blood off Rex's ankle with my hair. It was all I could do. There was no first aid kit and we had no clean cloth.

Bondman stood speechless.

Tears welled in Barilae's eyes.

Two of the guards stared and the third averted his gaze.

Marita rolled her eyes.

It was a scene from a painting like those I'd seen in the nuns' books at Vunapope, and I would have stayed there looking up into Rex's face had Bondman not cut in.

"Get up!" he barked. "This is no time to carry on like a pork chop. We're moving out."

The native police leapt into action. They took the saplings they had cut and cross-tied them with strips of bark to make two ends of a stretcher. Between the ends they bound bearer poles to which they tied a cloth to form a litter. They laid Rex on it and set off with Marita, Barilae and I following.

Barilae, marching with Rex's rifle slung on one shoulder and his own rifle over the other, was all smiles. I slung one of the stretcher-bearers' rifles on my shoulder, and my sister did the same.

I gasped and whimpered under the weight. The uneven load put me off balance, and I slipped and tripped along the track. Marita marched in silence, but she fared little better.

For two hours we slogged along the trail to Bondman's hideout, and I can testify that the two sore and sorry young women who trailed into camp that afternoon couldn't muster the strength to glance up even momentarily as the treetops erupted and the sky turned black with starlings flying to their roosts before darkness fell.

The first face I saw was that of another white man. A lean young man of medium height and build, with brown close-cropped hair and a ready open smile came to greet us. He carried a satchel on one shoulder and a haversack on his back. A classy pair of binoculars swung from a thin strap around his neck and he wore his flying officer's hat pushed back at a jaunty angle.

"Quite the patrol pin-up," Marita huffed.

I'd seen men with the same confident, relaxed manner in the movies and I wondered if he might be American.

Bondman peered at the young man. "Gosh, it's you, Champion," he said. "Why on earth are you kitted up like that?"

"I'm training for the trek down to the beach."

Champion stepped over to Rex. "Lieutenant Breeze Champion, Photo Reconnaissance, Dobodura Base," he said. "I'm on a tropical holiday, courtesy of Lieutenant Bondman. I am honored to meet the commander of coastwatchers on this island.

They shook hands, and Rex even managed a smile.

Champion nodded to Barilae, then turned to Marita and me and removed his cap. "My father taught me never by choice to absent myself from the company of beautiful ladies," he said. "Your presence here is therefore as welcome to me as it is surprising. May I ask who you are, and how you got here?"

He had eyes only for me, but it was Marita who stepped forward to pump his hand. "I am Marita Lazar," she said. "This is my sister, Miriam. When Rex was captured, we trekked down from the mountains to find him. With Barilae's help we rescued him but, as you can see, he's injured."

"Well, that's quite a story. It's a pleasure to meet you both."

"Thank you," Marita replied, with a curt smile that did nothing to mask her awkwardness; but I stepped up, took the young pilot's hand, and smiled my best girly smile.

Marita huffed and shuffled behind me. "I know what you're doing, young lady," she whispered.

I drew Marita aside. "Can't you see?" I said. "High command sent Breeze to take photographs. They haven't forgotten us!"

Marita winced as though bearing some inward pain. "Then it must be me who has the problem," she huffed. "Be that as it may, we need to get you fixed up. Your hair's a mess and you look a fright. I'll fetch soap and water. And something to eat wouldn't go astray. I'll see what I can find."

And with that, she whisked me away from Champion's admiring gaze.

Washed and fed, I sat in a dream playing cat's cradle and following the flight of birds, while Marita studied Morse code and the phonetic alphabet, ever hopeful of being invited to help the men with the signals. An hour passed, during which time I did not cease to fidget.

Finally, Marita could take no more. She grabbed my make-up bag and pushed it towards me. "Very well," she said. "Put on some lipstick before you drive me mad," she huffed. "First Rex, now Breeze. Who knows where this fellow may sweep you off to? And what sort of a name is 'Breeze' anyway? Goodness, Miriam, I don't get what you see in men, especially this one."

That evening Bondman called the men together for an emergency conference. Marita and I could listen but not speak.

"Ornaments!" my sister snorted.

I bathed carefully, rubbed a little coconut oil on my arms and neck, wound a clean floral sarong around myself and stuck a frangipani blossom in my hair. And I must have done a good job, because, as we settled by the campfire, I noticed the men directing glances in my direction. For many a month they'd not been in the company of women, and I, young and idealistic, believed that making myself available for their appreciation was a contribution that I could make to the war.

Bondman, however, had more important things to do than look at me. Grim faced and somber, he rose to start the meeting, took a slip of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and cast his gaze around the circle of faces.

"Things have changed. You've all heard what happened in the mountains. And you've seen for yourselves that Rex is injured. Now a transmission has come from Command HQ that, taken with everything else that has happened, affects how we approach our remaining time on this island," he said.

Our eyes were focused on Bondman, but from the corner of my eye I saw Rex pick up a stick and start poking the fire. Marita must have noticed too, because she nudged me and pointed with her chin. "Miriam," she whispered, "whatever's in that message, Paul has already sorted it with Rex."

I pasted an innocent smile on my face, cupped a hand over my mouth and edged towards her, but before I could reply, Rex gave the embers an extra hard poke and tongues of fire flared up.

The flickering shadow the flames cast across Bondman's face matched his somber mood as he read us the message.

"To C/W Open Bay," the transmission began. "Attention Lieutenant Bondman.

"Catalina scheduled pickup downed airmen south coast STOP can return north coast if necessary STOP."

A murmur rippled through the group.

"Room for one repeat one STOP," the message continued. "Confirm passenger. END."

Bondman folded the paper and looked at Breeze.

"You won't be going," he said. "Rex will. He decided to leave the day he was injured, and he's not changed his mind, so you're on the island until further notice.

Breeze looked at Rex and back at Bondman. "Fine by me," he said. "One thing though─you have all the help you need here; so, first thing in the morning I'll be off."

Bondman frowned. "Not to Kupi," he snapped.

Rex smiled. "No, mate, not to Kupi."

"This is an island," Bondman said. "Where in heaven's name can Breeze go?"

"I'm sending him over to give Telakul a hand."

Bondman threw up his hands. "Crossing the range alone is nuts," he huffed, but Rex just smiled and said something about scales covering his eyes.

Breeze smiled at Bondman with the carefree smile of a teenage boy, the kind of smile you can't reason with.

"Very well. I'd better give you a Sten gun then," Bondman sighed. "That revolver of yours is just a toy."

That night we sat around the campfire and boiled the billy, and as we handed around mugs of tea and listened to the frogs and the crickets, not a word passed between us.

Not a word, that is, until a scream from the sentry on the far side of the camp pierced the air.

On the far side of the clearing, the guard was grappling with a man in the shadows. In the time it took for Rex to fetch his revolver, the unknown assailant frog-marched the sentry to our campfire with a knife at his throat.

Rocky!

With the lordly authority of a night-stalking lion the sergeant major had returned.

"Showoff!" Rex yelled and turned to Bondman. "Paul," he said, "Let me introduce the toughest policeman in the Territory!"

"An extra gun won't go astray I guess," Bondman growled, but his grin gave him away.

Rex sat Rocky down and gave him a mug of tea and a lump of damper. "Okay, big feller," he said. "Tell us what you know."

Everything was news to us: the Japanese raid on Kupi; the successful escape; the move to Viraulalu; the courage and good sense shown by the mountain men in their first battle.

T

On the afternoon before his departure, Rex called a meeting. "We'll leave when the moon rises," he said. "Great to have you back, Rocky. You'll cover the rear of the column. Bondman will lead off and I'll march with Breeze and the Lazars in the middle.

"Responsibility for New Britain coastwatching will rest with Bondman. John will continue to lead the Nakanai team from the new base at Viraulu.

Rocky, take these two girls to the highest village on the last peak. When you've done that, get your arse back to camp and help Barilae with the militia.

We arrived at the beach just before daybreak. The moon, now past its zenith, cast our shadows long and thin along the sand.

Rocky pushed us behind a sand dune and told us not to move and not to speak.

"Jeezuz," John whispered. "I'm more scared of Rocky than I am of the bloody Japs."

Remaining silent turned out to be the easier part. I lay on the cold sand, trying to ignore my aching joints and tightening muscles. Crying silently, I rolled onto my back and stretched my cramped legs. Rex crept away and came back with pandanus fronds which he laid out as a carpet. I rolled over onto the matting and luxuriated in the soothing strokes of Rex's strong hands massaging my shoulders, back and thighs until I went to sleep.

The kou-kou-kou of cuckoos announcing the morning woke me. My tired body told me to lie in, but Rex, gently shaking me by the elbow, insisted otherwise.

The others slept on. Rex tried to get them up, but only Marita paid attention.

John and Jim pulled their laplaps over their heads, and Rocky and Barilae refused to stir.

"My last night and you sleep through it like a treeful of koalas," Rex huffed. He said the words softly, but they hit the mark.

John groaned, rolled over and squinted at his watch.

"Bloody hell," he cried. "The plane's late."

"Exactly!" Rex declared, and hushed us to listen for the sound of engines.

But I couldn't see the point. No matter how hard I strained my ears, I couldn't make the plane come any sooner.

What I was sure of, however, was that Rex relaxed was preferable to Rex wound tight as a spring, so I tried to get him talking.

"I've never seen one close up," I said.

"One what?"

"A plane."

"Be ready for a bit of noise," he said. "It's a Catalina. Twin engines."

"Loud?"

"Loud"

"But good?"

"Wonderful. When it comes time to park me away tell them to carry me out to the sound of big old Pratt and Whitney radials howling in synch."

_Radio engines ..._ I mouthed the words. _What other mysteries will this man speak of?_

What a simple girl I was.

I could have lain there longer, but a muffled curse broke the spell. Rocky was pummeling a cramped thigh. He pulled himself into a squatting position with the offending leg sticking straight out, putting me in mind of the Cossack dancer pictured in my geography text book at Vunapope mission. I giggled into the crook of my elbow.

Rex gave me a wink. "This is no time to go soft on me, big feller," he said. "Not with the angel due."

The pain eased and Rocky put on a face-saving show, falling to a rifleman's kneeling position and leaning to his right with one hand cupped around his ear. Fate came to his aid and I was sent reeling as the big fellow jerked to his feet. " _Balus i_ come!" he yelled.

A silent dark dot scudding fast and low over the ridge grew into a black shape that with each moment reflected larger in the glistening pools of Rex's eyes and louder in my straining ears.

My body floated, my vision blurred, and I would have become a useless sack had Rex's voice not called me back.

"Breathe, girl. Don't tune out on me now."

The plane banked over the headland, the engines clattered with a metallic roar, and we jumped and shouted like kids. Then, as the pilot throttled back on approach, the sound of the engines settled to a sonorous drone, and we cheered ourselves hoarse.

The Catalina cleaved a path across the silver surface of the bay, and as she slowed a glittering patina of spindrift arched above her. The pilot feathered the propellers, gunned the port engine and swung the nose into the wind.

Rex and I splashed out to the plane. The pilot cut the engines and smiled down at us from the cockpit. "Sorry about the time," he yelled. "Too much dicking around on the first pick up."

"It's your arse as well as mine, mate," Rex shouted back.

Rex splashed back to the beach and called us together. "Listen up," he said. "Last words."

"Fire away," Bondman said.

"Don't over-extend. Remember your training. Don't go out alone."

Then he turned to Rocky. "We're going to win, big feller."

Rocky spat out his betel quid, smiled with red stained lips and saluted.

Rex prodded the big fellow's arm. "Hard as granite," he said, then took from his pocket the key to the ammunition case in which he kept his maps, flint, compass, code lists and call signs, and gave it to him.

It was my turn.

There was a kiss. Oh yes, there was ─ a long, deep kiss that drew wolf-whistles from the aircrew.

Rocky gestured shoreward with his gun, and I turned to scamper back to the beach, only to find my way blocked by Bondman's sturdy frame. The big fellow gently pushed the barrel of the sergeant's gun downward, then turned to Rex and shook his hand.

Rex grinned.

Without a word of explanation, Bondman took my hand and placed it in Rex's.

Rocky was not pleased. Body rigid, gun-hand trembling, the big fellow stood glaring at the two officers, but to them he may as well have been a bark painting.

"As officer in charge, His Majesty's Australian Ship New Britain, I would like a word," Bondman said.

Rex blinked. "Officer in charge, HMAS New Britain? What's this all about?"

Rocky sprayed a crimson stream of betel juice from his mouth and cocked his weapon.

Bondman, feigning alarm, pantomimed a grab for the sergeant's gun.

"Get on with it, man," Rex said, "before Rocky shoots the lot of us."

"I now pronounce you commander and bride," Bondman said.

Rocky was furious. "If you are going, go!" he growled. The big fellow glowered at Rex and directed a grim look at me. "Back to shore... _now_!"

The best wedding ever and no peace to enjoy it.

I waded back to the beach in the wake of Bondman's sturdy frame striding through the shallows, the spray from the propellers stinging my back and neck as the pilot gunned the engines, and when I reached the sand I flung myself down, high on happiness and befuddled by sadness.

I lay on the beach, laughing, crying, trying to gather my thoughts, and would have lain there longer had a familiar voice not brought me to my senses.

"Married now, are we?"

Marita.

I was vulnerable, but Bondman fixed my sister with a steely stare. "Married," he said, "is the one thing we were sure she was already," he snapped.

My eyes flicked back to the sea. Rex was standing by the open canopy peering shoreward through the spray thrown up by the propellers. He locked eyes with Breeze and gestured in my direction.

Breeze nodded and saluted.

The Catalina took off eastward into the rising sun, and then banked to the southwest heading for Papua and a paradise of hot showers, chilled watermelon and mangoes, freshly squeezed lemonade, news magazines and open-air picture shows in the balmy tropical evenings. I was just a plantation girl, but I'd seen such things in Rabaul.

As the sound of the engines faded, we watched in silence as the reflection of the morning sun flashed from the plane's wings like the winking of a bright star. Before our eyes, the shimmering image of the rudder merged with the shape of the floats, giving the appearance of a rider in a flaming chariot.

"Godspeed!" Bondman declared.

"He'll be okay," Rocky mumbled.

Marita looked at me, her neck and arms a mass of eczema welts.

"Laughter? Tears?" she said. "Make up your mind, Sis."

"It's all one big story," I whispered. "And now I know how it ends."

Marita shaped to reply, but Bondman interrupted. "Enough kissing, hugging and gas-bagging," he yelled. "I want us off this beach before everyone from Nakanai to Nippon realizes we're here like ducks in a shooting gallery."

We arrived back at Bondman's aerie high on the mountain, late in the afternoon.

The view to Open Bay was breathtaking, but I was in no mood for sunsets and distant peaks. I splashed some water on my face, unrolled my mat, laid my weary body down still in my clothes from the trail, and slept from sundown until after daybreak.

"I've something to tell you all," Breeze announced at breakfast.

Bondman looked puzzled. He was usually the one making announcements.

"I'm off," Breeze said.

A pain ripped through my body, starting from my stomach and piercing my heart.

"What do you mean off?" Bondman barked. "Off like last year's cheese?"

"Off to help Telakul. Over the range. As Rex said."

Bondman kicked a stump and lifted his eyes to the distant peaks, studying them as though he'd never seen them before.

But he wasn't as shocked as I was.

"Is this how it feels to be shot?" I wondered.

Finally Bondman found his voice.

"Off you go, then, I guess," he huffed.

"Thank you," Breeze said, but he was looking at me, not Bondman.

"We'll meet again," Bondman said, and I noticed his voice was softer now.

"And when we do," he said, "it will be in a better place, under better circumstances."

Breeze offered handshakes all round. He gave a few hugs too, but my hug was the longest.

He paused at the head of the trail, looked back, grinned, sprayed us with make-believe rounds from his Sten gun, struck a matinee idol's pose, bowed low with a flourish of his cap, and disappeared into the bush.

But late that night, the flapping and screeching of flying foxes in the mango tree squabbling over the choicest fruit, stirred me from sleep, and I felt Breeze stroke my brow.

Two days later we were sufficiently rested to make the trek back to John and his group at the new camp at Viraulu. Bondman tried to draft a map from his own rough drawings and some aerial photos he had in his kit, but Barilae scoffed.

"I can find the place with my eyes shut," he said. "Neither my father nor his father before him needed a map. I can't read anyway. And I wouldn't know which side was up."

And that was the end of the discussion.

As we approached Viraulu, Barilae spotted someone on the trail ahead. "He's waiting at the turn to the ravine," he growled.

We melted into the undergrowth.

Rocky slipped away into the bush to go take a look, but surprised us all a few minutes later, when he appeared walking towards us on the trail, deep in conversation with Banara, one of the ex-policemen from Michael's squad.

Smiling and relieved, Marita and I stepped out from behind the log where we had taken cover, and ran to hear Banara's news.

But something was amiss. Banara walked like a man in trance. And Rocky wouldn't hold our gaze.

"What is it, Rocky?" I asked.

"Your brother...."

That's all he would say.

No one spoke as we made our way down the ravine to the camp.

My heart was thumping, and Marita arms and neck were covered in eczema.

We came to the head of the trail and saw Jim waiting for us.

"Sorry ladies. If only you'd come last night," was all he said, and then, without a word of explanation, he told us to follow him and headed for the campsite.

As we cleared the tree line, we saw John in a clearing on the far side of Viraulu Creek, standing by a freshly-dug grave beside which a body was laid out, wrapped in parachute silk.

"Michael died of pneumonia," John said. "I tried my hardest. Filled him with Sulfonamide, but he didn't respond."

Before we could gather our thoughts, a cry rang out on the other side of the creek, and two sentries appeared, marching a disheveled figure at rifle point ─ a black man of medium build with the typical wedge-shaped torso and long head of a coastal Nakanai. He was wearing a dirty white laplap and a khaki bandana.

It was one too many distractions for John.

"Who the hell are you?" he yelled.

"I am Tuga Bububu Uru," the man replied, his voice soft yet firm. "Tuga for short."

"What do you want?" John snapped.

"I go from place to place. I'm here to help," he replied.

"That's the sort of nonsense a spy would spout," John yelled

He stepped up to Tuga and peered in his face. "Listen carefully," he growled. "Say one word about us to the Japanese, and I'll hunt you down like a scabied dog."

But Tuga, without a word, knelt and began to massage my brother's chest.

Michael stirred.

Tuga loosened the bindings and when Michael sat up, he stepped back and peered down at him like a craftsman examining his handiwork.

John, Jim, Marita and I backed away.

Maekel stood firm, cheeks trembling.

Barilae's face turned gray.

But Rocky, spooked out of his mind, grabbed a machete and advanced on Tuga, scowling darkly. "You can only raise a stinking corpse to life because you yourself are rotten to the core!" he screamed.

Rocky raised his bushknife to strike him down, but Tuga, without flinching stepped away, walked to the trailhead, turned, paused, smiled back at my sister and me and disappeared into the rainforest.
Chapter twenty-eight

Ruth

Recollections

Hashi and I couldn't risk being seen at the jetties and airstrips in Central and East Nakanai, so we opted for the difficult trek overland to Malalia through the western gullies and ridges of the mountains. The timber controversy had taken our attention away from Hashi's pilgrimage, so we decided to slog up the trail to Kokiso on the way and see if we could find anyone there with any knowledge of his grandfather.

We set off in the cool of the day, but by mid-morning we were covered in sweat. I needed a rest, but Hashi seemed not to notice, so when he stopped to peel a leech off his leg, I yelled 'break' and threw my pack down. That got his attention.

We slogged into Kokiso shortly after noon, to a warm welcome. The villagers set out mats and piled before us basins piled high with roasted taro and sweet potato steamed in coconut cream. And that was just the first meal. As we dug in, the luluai stood up and gave a speech in which he promised to slaughter two pigs in our honor the next day.

Reverently, they passed around Hashi's bundle of photos from the war and the old studio portrait of his grandfather, resplendent in full uniform. At first the photos caused a hubbub of excitement. Everyone over forty claimed to have known Hashi's grandfather and to have worked for him specifically or rendered him some favor. It sounded unbelievable and it was.

Hashi caught my eye over the hunched shoulders of the people riffing through the photos. "Nothing but imaginings," he sighed. "Wishful thinking."

Some people, however, recognized kinfolk long dead and the mood changed. The women wailed, a low-pitched, mournful cadence that rose to a keening crescendo, subsided and then started again, and the men sang a traditional mourning song.

After a few minutes a serene old man stepped forward and said he remembered Hashi's grandfather. Another man, even older, stepped forward too. "I know your grandfather's name," he said. "We called him Kasumi." Weeping, the old fellow ran the tips of his fingers lightly over the face in the photo. "I guided him and his men," he continued. "If my mountain kinsmen had caught me, I wouldn't have lasted five minutes."

Hashi was all smiles until another old man stepped forward. "That's nonsense," he yelled. "Your father told you that name. My uncle was the one who guided the patrol. You were still little."

Two middle-aged men stepped forward, arguing about which of the two of them had carried supplies for Hashi's grandfather. Neither was old enough for his claim to hold water.

The meeting descended into chaos. People began yelling, a fist fight broke out, and in the confusion someone bumped the photos and sent them flying in the dirt.

The village councilor, a fit, sinewy man of about fifty, drew Hashi aside and whispered in his ear. Hashi shrugged and looked at the ground.

With stooped shoulders the councilor walked to the middle of the village clearing and without a word of warning began wailing.

I looked at Hashi. "Did you tell him the timber talks are off?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Is that what he's wailing about?"

"No. The timber deal falling through clears the way for mourning the folks in the photos," Hashi replied. And he was right.

Shouting to make himself heard, the councilor announced a wake and the first thing on the agenda must have been music, because he sent a group of young men to fetch the log drum from the men's house.

The youths staggered back a few minutes later, huffing and puffing under the weight of the drum. The senior men gathered around as the drum master set up a steady, sonorous, driving beat. When he reached the fifth bar the choristers joined in, intoning the first of a series of melancholy chants that continued until after the sun peeked over the tops of the trees next morning.

It was a memorable night of drinking, feasting and singing, that looked set to continue until morning, but we'd had a long, tiring day and needed to sleep. The councilor showed us to the transit house and we made ourselves as comfortable as we could on the palm bunks. As I tried to nod off with the split edges digging into my back, the wind rustling in the thatching sounded like rats nibbling. I screwed my eyes shut and clung to Hashi.

Next morning, the sun streaming though the torn thatching roused me early, but Hashi was already bustling about. I peeked from my sleeping bag and through the open door saw the billy steaming, suspended from a sapling above a mound of burning twigs.

"No primus?" I called.

"Out of fuel," he called back. "Have to make do."

I poked one arm out and, feeling the chill of the morning air, opted for a few more minutes. When I finally decided it was worth forsaking a lie-in to share a coffee with Hashi, I ventured out into the cool mist looking forward to a cuddle and found him riffing through a pile of papers, too engrossed to pay any attention to me, although he did try to fake it.

"Ruth, it says here... "

"Good morning," I yawned. "Any coffee?"

"Instant, not esspresso."

"No cuddle?"

"Too busy."

"What's with the furrowed brow?"

"I've been going over Grandad's diary. You know, this is the village where the Nakanai militia attacked his detachment. They beat them off and captured Rex, but the others got away. Then they took Rex down to Silanga.

"And...?

"Something's fishy. The Rex File says Rex was betrayed, but my grandad's diary says he gave himself up. The Rex File says Barilae retreated, but Grandad's diary says the natives fled in terror. The Rex File says Hashimoto's men beat Rex unconscious and put him in a cave, and that Barilae, Miriam and Marita got him out the same night, but Grandad mentions none of that. He just says how glad he was to be rid of Rex.

"Could your grandfather have been sanitizing the story to save face?"

"Only without realizing what he was doing, Ruth. Grandad was an honest man."

"Hashi," I sighed. "It's just one man's version, an account of what he saw and what he wished for, a jigsaw puzzle of fiction and fact."

"Same could be said about Rex. All you have is the diary," he sniffed. "I don't think Rex was anyone special, just a regular person like the rest of us. The same goes for his friends in the mountains, too. No heroes I say."

"Hashi," I sighed, "you really know how to spoil a vacation. Two days ago I uncovered your charming little timber swindle and now I have to listen while you go on and on about Rex. He was a brave and dedicated man and Justin and Miriam are prepared to put in the effort to test the facts. I am too. But you? You're caught up with another of your 'whatever it takes' campaigns. Enough is enough."

"You say that because you want to believe," he said. "It's not about facts; it's about point of view. And I have Grandad's diary to back me up."

"There's more to it than the diary," I said. "Before you pontificate you should read the whole of the Rex File," I said.

"I know about the Rex File, Ruth."

I sniffed. " 'Read it', I said, not 'know about it.' "

"I'll get to the Rex File, promise," Hashi replied.

"But when you do, will you be prepared for the truth that emerges from the reports, recollections, anecdotes and reminiscences of eyewitnesses?"

"Ruth, Ruth. We live our lives and others tell the story. Facts are not what matters."

"So you say. But nothing will stop me from looking for the best evidence."
Chapter twenty-nine

John

Extract from a transcript of a recording by Luke Freeman

Combined Allied Intelligence Townsville May 1945

The locals were bursting to have a crack at the enemy. It was time to act, so I called on all fighting men to gather at Kotou.

On the morning of the muster Jim and I rose early and put on our uniforms with badges of rank. I instructed Rocky and Maekel to parade their men in jungle greens, and the pair of them turned their squads out as smartly as elite troops.

The mountain men were keen to have a go at drill and I gave the nod, reasoning that if they succeeded in creating order it would mean less work for me; and if they failed they'd be more inclined to pay attention when we started to train them.

There was a lump in my throat as I watched the mountain men sort themselves by village groups. Each in turn oldest to youngest, the luluais stepped up to exhort the warriors. It took a long time but I knew things worked best when done the local way, so I was happy to wait. And I'm glad I did, for I had a ringside seat as the luluais displayed their fighting credentials. Each one stepped poised, dodged and weaved towards the assembled men, then pranced back only to advance again, shouting, questioning their manhood and accusing them of being afraid.

As the spearmen's mood hardened to steely determination under the force of the harangue, the luluais eased off just before anger turned to resentment. Among the mountain people, audacity was not the only mark of a leader. Good judgment was also valued, and a man inclined to make decisions clouded by anger could not be a fight leader.

As the display approached its climax, the ever-vigilant Rocky left off reviewing the parade and eyed me with a filthy smirk. Too late I twigged to what he was leering at. An officer draws his sidearm only under the most straitened circumstances, but I, carried away by the stirring war dance, had drawn my pistol and was stroking its barrel.

Rocky's jaws trembled. One faux pas on my part and his mighty laugh would burst forth. And, sadly for me, there was a false step.

Adopting an air of nonchalance, I tried to ease my pistol back into its holster, but the safety hammer caught in a belt loop of my pants. Blushing crimson, I struggled to ease it loose without blowing my balls off.

Rocky just manage to gasp 'parade dismissed' before he succumbed. Like a marionette released by the puppeteer, he sank to his knees, and as his laughter echoed from the cliffs my dignity disappeared into the mist beyond the ridge.

To the last man the assembled throng of spearmen joined in the joke and i wondered if I would ever regain credibility.

It was a diverting moment, but the laughter finally subsided and the village leaders turned again to their warm-up.

When the luluais were finished, Rocky yelled something in Pidgin and as one the warriors dropped their spears and adopted a rifleman pose. Grinning like an indulgent parent, Rocky saluted the parade, swiveled, saluted me and stepped back.

It was my turn.

"Brave men of the mountains," I began. "Soon Japanese soldiers will come. Our friends, the men of America, will push them back towards Rabaul, and as they flee, many will seek refuge here, set up camps, chop down trees and steal the food from your gardens. But we will not flee like the ground cuscus running from the hunter's dogs. We will stand and fight!"

My voice rose to a crescendo as I shouted the finale, and I thought I had done pretty well, but the speech was greeted with stony silence.

Barilae stepped up and took up the stance of a spear-thrower."We fight!" he cried, and in unison the mountain men burst forth with a spine-chilling war cry.

"There's your problem, Rex," said John, glancing at me with a look of pure innocence. "You lack flair."

As the war cry echoed from the sides of the gorge, the spearmen broke ranks and crushed in around us, wild-eyed and angry. We were completely out of our depth, with no idea how long the testosterone-fuelled fury would last and no power to control it. My blood ran cold and the color drained from Jim's face.

Miriam and the other civilians, who had been watching from a distance, bolted back to the camp, but Rocky's and Maekel's men stood firm on the perimeter, rifles at the ready.

Rocky grabbed me by the arm, muscled his way through the crowd, hoisted me onto the parade stand and stared up at me with a quizzical look. It was more than a hint it was practically an order, so I, not being the kind of person to miss a cue, clambered to my feet to deliver a speech which I hoped would save our arses.

"The Australian Army has promised to send you guns!" I yelled.

The din drowned me out, so I shouted the words again at the top of my voice.

The warriors stopped yelling, dropped their spears, and took up once more the stance of riflemen.

"A big plane will bring the guns, so if you want one, be here the morning after tomorrow."

There was silence while they absorbed this, then a roar of approval.

"You will fight in village sections under your own leaders. You will receive rations and a policeman's pay."

They weren't listening.

"And we will supply food for your families."

They were listening again.

"Now about the guns," I continued. "We will train you and test you. If you pass you'll keep the gun. When the fighting is over you must give the gun back."

Rocky stepped forward and announced breakfast. He plied the spearmen with rice, bully beef, navy biscuits and sweet black tea, twist tobacco and sheets of newspaper with which to roll cigarettes, and when the warriors had eaten their fill he stood up to address them, said everything I had said and sat down, only to be replaced by Barilae, who stood up and said it all again.

With that, the meeting came to an end and the spearmen trooped off. "Guns are coming," they chanted as they filed away on the track. "We will shoot. We will shoot."

The next morning, the bomber bearing the munitions and supplies roared in at first light. The drop was spot on. Twenty red and yellow parachutes blossomed wanly in the delicate light of the pre-dawn sky, ten in each of two runs, and bore their precious loads gently groundwards.

Rocky was as excited as a schoolboy. Knowing the timber cases held the guns, he grabbed one of those first and ripped it open. Grinning fit to split his face, he held up a 12-gauge repeater shotgun, the shiny gray oiled barrel of which glinted malevolently in the rays of the rising sun.

Reverently, Rocky stroked the tips of his fingers along the stock and barrel.

"Why don't you make love to it?" I said, looking to get one back on the big fellow after my own recent indelicate behavior with a gun. But Rocky wasn't listening.

"This is a fine sporting weapon," he cried. "It should be used for hunting, not war."

Early next morning, we were roused from our bunks by the shouts of excited warriors streaming into the camp. We followed them down to the parade ground and watched in amazement as they arranged themselves into eight village squads each with its own leader and lined up for inspection.

Rocky and Maekel assembled the volunteers, led them down to a gully, ran through some basic lessons on gun-handling, paced out a firing range, set up a target, distributed five rounds each and tested each man for marksmanship.

All day we sat in camp, counting the shots and worrying about what to do if a volunteer were to be felled by a stray shot, and we sighed with relief when, late in the afternoon, Rocky and Maekel returned full of smiles and wisecracks.

"The mountain warriors are fine marksmen," Rocky announced. "I only had to fail one."

"Did you give out the weapons?"

"Every last one," Maekel replied. "Eighty shotguns, five cartridges each."

"Great!" I said."Add to that our HQ group with ten shotguns, six .303s, a Sten gun, six rifles and a dozen cases of hand grenades."

"Don't let it go to your head, Rex," John said, effecting a droll voice and adopting a child-like expression. "We need practice before we march on Tokyo!"
Chapter thirty

Kasumi Hashimoto

Transcript of an interview recorded by Luke Freeman

Combined Allied Intelligence Rabaul 2 November 1945

Translation: Australian New Guinea Administrative Unit

The tape is running. Shall we pick up from where we left off last week?

Of course. My temperature is back to normal. Thank you for the quinine tablets.

Why did you order your troops to attack the mountain villages?

I knew violence would not succeed against the mountain people, so I did everything I could to win their trust; but my soft approach fell out of favor the moment the Americans landed. South Seas Imperial Command ordered a retreat from the western half of the island and instructed me to clear the way. The order could not have been clearer. It was my responsibility and mine alone to eliminate the coastwatchers and neutralize their mountain allies. It was my sacred duty.

My colleague in charge of the garrison at Ulamona, Commander Satō, urged me to be more aggressive, and sent twenty marines.

I planned to set up a forward post in the Silanga valley from where I could send patrols into the mountains, but before I could get things moving I came under more pressure, this time from Major Yamashiro, the officer in charge of the Megigi garrison. That abrasive, arrogant fellow, he marched uninvited and unannounced into my garrison at Malalia with ten armed men, full of tough talk, and harangued me in the hearing of my troops. To Yamashiro, the mountain men were savages who would flee at the sound of gunfire. He urged me to eliminate them in a single, bloody thrust inland.

I knew we could not succeed by taking the mountain men on in the mountains. They were fierce, brave fighters skilled at ambush. Exposed on ridges and isolated in gorges, my men would be picked off. I had to find a better way.

Instead of a thrust, I settled on a policy of patrolling frequently and in force deep into the mountains from two strong forward positions in the foothills. It was a strategy to control rather than coerce. My intention was to save my men and limit casualties among the mountain people, but as we all know, I failed and great suffering followed ─ on both sides.

Thank you, Lieutenant-Commander. I'll see to the translation and give you a copy. I advise you to check the draft carefully, as it will be submitted in evidence to the War Crimes Tribunal.
Chapter thirty-one

John

Extract from a transcript of a recording by Luke Freeman

Combined Allied Intelligence Townsville May 1945

The mountain men didn't have to wait long for their first fight.

"Japs on the track," Rocky reported, "Marines, well armed and fit. They're burning Umu Village... looking to scare us out into the open."

I called an emergency meeting. "See the fiery glow beyond the ridge?" I said. "That means we're out of time, so I'll make this short. Here are your orders. Just four words, gentlemen: We stand and fight."

"As the enemy troops make their way down through the last stretch of the ravine, Maekel's squad will creep up the side gully and block them from behind. Then, as Rocky's squad moves forward, Maekel and his men will close in from the rear."

Rocky wanted to stop the attack before it began, and since our defensive plan was already in place, and any option offering fewer casualties sounded good to me, I gave him the go-ahead.

My heart heaved in my chest as Rocky make his way into the ravine, and when he disappeared from view around the rocky outcrop at the first bend, my stomach knotted up and I began to dry retch.

Jim handed me his water bottle. "Here," he said. "Just make sure you rinse your puke off it when you're done."

"Don't worry about me," I said. "Worry about Rocky. Do you remember that day at the barracks? If I die I die? Too brave by half, mate."

Jim clasped his hands, sank to his knees and took the matter up with a higher authority. And there he stayed until the wind over the ridge brought the unmistakable staccato crackle of gunfire to our eats and sent us scrambling for our guns. Together Jim and I strained our ears and scanned the ravine.

A figure appeared, leaping from rock to rock down the ravine.

"He's shouting like a madman," I said and reached for my field glasses.

"And grinning like a chimp?" Jim offered.

"Absolutely, mate."

Laughter erupted from the heart of my little Cockney friend, an unabashed braying, the relieved, overloud laugh of the reprieved. "Thank God for our resident assassin," he cried.

Rocky raced into camp. "Those scabied dogs are on the run!" he yelled.

"Great news," Jim intoned. "My knees can't take much more."

"I hid at a bend," Rocky explained. "When the enemy column appeared, I jumped out screaming and opened fire, leapt away into the bush, took cover behind a log and raked the column with a burst that took out half a dozen. The others took off without a thought for their comrades, leaving three dead and five wounded for the mountain men to clean up."

I called the team together. "A good score card, gentlemen," I said. "All enemy in full retreat and all on our side out of danger for the time being. A round of applause for Sergeant Rocky Kepas, please!"

A few days later we received word that Hashimoto was returning at the head of a column of fifty grim-faced men, looking to press-gang local guides and come after us.

Thus began a game of cat-and-mouse that unfolded over the next two days.

Afraid to strike further into the mountains, Hashimoto set up a strong perimeter and sent out small scouting patrols.

On the third night they lit a great fire. Rocky, seeing this, went down to Sipa and lit a bonfire to see if he could draw the Japanese out, and the ruse worked.

Next morning a Japanese patrol set out early for Sipa, unaware that one of the fiercest fight leaders, a mean-tempered man by the name of Pasi, with skin so riddled with ring-worm that he looked like a bush spirit, was waiting in ambush. As Hashimoto's men made their way single file to Sipa on the bush narrow track, Pasi stepped from hiding.

The lead soldier froze and the next two piled into him.

Pasi fired a single shot and disappeared into the bush. All three soldiers tumbled to the ground, each with a hole in his forehead and their comrades fled back to the coast, dragging the bodies with them.

I turned to Jim. "The mountain men are looking good, and Rocky's reputation is soaring," I said, but Jim just smiled, rolled a cured tobacco leaf into a thick cheroot, lit it, took a puff and passed it to me without a word. It was a moment to remember. We puffed until the smoke hung in a cloud about our faces and rendered the mountain air redolent with the unique soothing, sublime aroma of sun-cured tobacco.

A commotion broke out on the far side of the camp. Sentries shouted and a single shot rang out, followed by an eerie silence. I grabbed my gun and made for the spot, dodging behind trees.

Maekel emerged into the clearing marching three men at gunpoint.

"Lower your weapon, Sergeant," I said. "These men are scouts from Rocky's squad."

Maekel winked. "I know," he said, and his thick lips arranged themselves into a broad grin.

The scouts drew back, all silent pouts and dark glances, and a good ten minutes passed before my gifts of cigarettes and betel nuts finally coaxed them to speak.

They reported a terrified rabble of starving soldiers passing in dribs and drabs through Silanga. It was very good news, because up until now we'd only heard reports of disciplined squads marching in their thousands along the coast road.

Maekel rubbed the stock of his rifle. "Let's go after them," he said.

But the scouts scoffed. "There are about five hundred of them a day, heading for a new stronghold at Sege. They're taking refuge there and re-forming into units.

Maekel spat. "Stronghold, my arse," he growled. "My men will exterminate them in ten minutes."

Next morning, Kua, leader of the warriors from Uta village, strutted into camp and announced that he and his squad had ambushed a tattered column of seven Japanese troops, killing three and forcing the four survivors to flee. But after half an hour of questioning, I told him I believed he'd killed only two men and he went away in a huff, bare buttocks wiggling as he stalked off.

Wounded pride is a powerful force. Kua returned a few days later with a small parcel of tightly wrapped leaves. Gravely he peeled back the leaves and handed the little bundle to me.

Three bloody forefingers lay in my hand.

Air strikes forced the enemy to abandon Sege, leaving up to five hundred enemy troops a day unprotected on the road into the mountains. At last I could send the mountain men on a task that was not suicidal. As silent as ghosts, they could block the trail behind and ahead of each retreating squad of troops and ambush them.

It worked. In the last six weeks of the monsoon, the mountain men killed eighty-four Japanese and the enemy commanders had to give up his plan to set up a stronghold in the mountains.

Day by day the tally of enemy dead rose. The mountain men fired shots to mark each kill, and relayed the news over the mountain passes with blasts of the triton shell trumpet and into the upland valleys with the deep boom of log drums, until the day's tally was known even on the farthest ridges.

At the end of the monsoon things changed as enemy troops from positions east of the American landings began to pass through Nakanai, picking up strength on the way. They had not seen action and were fresh, alert and well armed. On the second of April, the retreating garrison from Megigi came into view of our scouts on the Silanga trail, a contingent of one hundred and eighty disciplined troops under Major Yamashiro, marching strongly.

The mountain men quickly recognized the major and his troops as those who had executed their kin in Kokiso four months before, and the lust for revenge was palpable.

I knew a bit about him too. Our intelligence people said he gained a reputation for calculated cruelty in the invasion of Manchuria. The fearsome fellow was well educated, an expert in the law and ancient Japanese history, but his record pointed to a man devoid of refinement and given to brute force.

Whatever the facts, guns and spears were the only things relevant now. A confrontation was imminent, and only the victor would live to tell the story.

The Nakanai riflemen and spearmen struck just as the Japanese crossed the Ala River, but were forced back. The Japanese made good their escape and went on to Sege, their scouts spraying the bush all the way with bullets.

At first light, the main body of Japanese troops quietly marched out of Sege heading east, but Major Yamashiro stayed with a detachment of fifty.

"There's my meat." Maekel hissed, gesturing for his men to take cover

Patience was Maekel's strong suit. Three hours later the moment he was waiting for came. Yamashiro ordered his troops to form up, and as they stooped to take up their packs, Maekel began blazing away.

The mountain men joined in and seven Japanese fell. The rest hid behind houses and trees, only to be picked off one by one. When the smoke cleared, thirty seven lay dead, but Yamashiro was not among them.

I drew back and flattened myself against a hut. Across the clearing, Maekel cast a puzzled glance at me and took cover.

Dark storm clouds rolling down from the peaks cast a shadow over the valley and in the half-light I felt confident to advance, but when I stepped from cover, Maekel wrestled me back with a bear hug strong enough to snap ribs.

"Bloody fool!" he yelled, and jumped out ahead of me, holding his gun straight up. At that moment a bolt of lightning lit the sky and a shot rang out. The bullet knocked the gun from Maekel's hands.

The big fellow looked at me, ashen faced.

"You alright?" he said.

"Yes. But I've had better days."

Another bolt of lightning ripped across the valley. It lit up the tree where the sniper was hiding, and for an instant I saw him peering through the branches. There was no mistaking that face. I was looking into the hate-filled eyes of Yamashiro.

According the nonsense called the nobility of war, my foe, commander to commander was Hashimoto, with his conflicted feelings and contradictory emotions, but he was no longer the main threat. The jackal in the pack was the man up the tree with his gun trained on me.

Maekel stepped out and took aim, then, as yet another fork of lightning ripped the sky, he squeezed the trigger.

Seeing Yamashiro tumble from the tree, Barilae let rip with a blood-chilling battle cry, dashed forward and speared the major in the stomach.

Maekel snarled like a robbed dog, but Barilae was unrepentant. The big sergeant had to be satisfied with second prize, the major's hat. He plonked it on his head and posed in the rain.

Jim bound our ensign to a spear, shinned up onto the roof of a hut and raised it aloft.

Around the clearing, warriors delivered the coup de grace to those whose life still lingered, and hacked fingers, noses and ears from lifeless bodies.

Barilae's men, tiring of hacking at the major's body, lifted the corpse by the limbs and flung it into a limestone cavern.

Oh God, an eye for an eye.

A trickle of sweat ran down my back.

Can I control this?

Barilae, wild-eyed, pranced up to Maekel and me, waving emblems of rank ripped from Yamashiro's uniform, but Maekel's cold stare brought the frenzied fellow to a stop. Barilae smiled, shook the sergeant's hand and gave him a shoulder patch, but Maekel spat and threw the patch in his face.

In a single morning's work, deaths had been avenged, honor restored and our territory secured, without a man lost. Considering the task done, I slung my gun on my shoulder and trudged off, expecting the mountain men to follow, but I had not reckoned with the local culture.

First, Barilae demanded our flag. He shinned up and dragged it down, gave it to me and asked me to hand it to him formally.

As I performed the pantomime, the rain stopped and the sun peeked through the clouds.

Then, a feast was declared.

Word went out into the valleys and along the ridges and for the next few hours the mountain folk poured in from everywhere.

A buzz ran along the trail as the people drew near to Sege and caught the aroma of smoke and hot fat, and that buzz became a babble when they entered the village and clapped eyes on a dozen pigs roasting in pairs along a double line of fires.

And to top it all, the sight of a smoking pile of corpses, not a spear's throw away, injected a massive dose of drama into the lives of these simple hunters and gardeners. They gaped and goggled, and as their numbers swelled, the shouting rose to a deafening crescendo.

For four frenetic days and nights they drummed, sang, danced and feasted, and long after the last guest had left, our yellow ensign, with the image of a little white bull fluttered proudly.

I was gaunt and tired and Jim was no more than skin and bone. We had been on the island for fourteen months and it was time to leave, so I called a meeting to thrash out an evacuation plan.

"Do I have a volunteer to stay as rear-guard?" I asked.

Maekel raised his hand.

"You old dog," I said. "I've seen you ogling that local girl, the one with tits like young coconuts. You've had your eye on her for months."

"These mountains are now my home," he said.

"Your offer is accepted, with thanks, big feller," I said. "Stay safe."

We moved out late in the afternoon. Maekel's chest heaved and tears welled, but he found his voice. _"Lukim yupela bihain,"_ he called as we trudged to the trailhead. "See you later."

The slight, silver crescent of a new moon lit our path to the coast. We made good time and reached the shore with a long wait ahead of us. We hid behind a dune, and as the sliver of moon slid behind the Willaumez peaks far to the South, we breathed a prayer of thanks.

We huddled against the cold and counted the rhythm of the waves as the surge of the tide marched them onto the beach.

"High command will come good," I whispered, and my faith was rewarded.

In the stillness before dawn a torpedo boat slipped out of the darkness. We scrambled aboard and sped away in the early glow of daybreak.

"Look at that!" Miriam said, pointing at the wake roiling incandescent behind us.

The boat skimmed across the face of a wave and bumped down, almost flinging Miriam into the sea. I grabbed her around the waist and pulled held her to me. "Either I get you back to Rex or we drown together," I said.

That ride to Finschafen was the last time I saw Miriam, Luke, and I will take to my grave the photograph in my mind of us standing arm in arm at the stern of that bucking, speeding PT boat, gazing back at the pastel pink and blue silhouettes of the peaks of Central Nakanai.
Africa again
Chapter thirty-two

Michel

Letter from Active World Orphanage, Burundi, 26 April 2008

My dear friend Justin,

I would have written sooner but certain things have happened, unbelievable things.

It started when an official arrived with a VIP, a Mr. Breeze Champion. In the back of the jeep was a man wrapped in a space blanket. They had run him over and nobody knew who he was. Ma'mselle sent him straight to the clinic.

At dinner, Ma'mselle encouraged Mr. Champion to talk and he obliged with a story. "I was on an aid mission to the Solomon Islands," he said. Ma'mselle leant forward, but Mr. Champion was in no hurry and served himself a generous portion of the spiced okra before he continued.

"My flight passed over a huge stain in the sea. A little island denuded of its forest was bleeding the detritus of its destruction. I saw barges loading machinery," he said. "The tree fellers, their work done, were leaving."

Ma'mselle dabbed her mouth. I offered to carve a slice of beef for Mr. Champion, but he waved me away. Ma'mselle's guest was an old man. He didn't eat much, nor did he stay up late. I can vouch for that, because at nine o'clock, when I served wine and cheese, Mr. Champion suddenly stood up without taking the merest sip of wine, bade Ma'mselle goodnight and went to his room.

Next morning, as she was taking her shower, Ma'mselle called for a fresh towel. Ma'mselle, you see, is a lady who can run an international foundation but can't remember her towel.

But I had no time to pursue that train of thought, for at that moment gunfire broke out and I ran to the window to see what was happening. What I saw curdled my blood, Justin: A dozen armed rebels were running through the compound spraying bullets, and they were almost at the door.

I grabbed a meat cleaver and dashed outside.

The police returned fire from the guardhouse and the air rang with the zip and ping of bullets whizzing by and ricocheting from the walls and pathways.

The rebels scrambled for cover and I cowered behind a tree.

One of the attackers charged at me, but a bullet stopped him cold.

Ma'mselle dashed from the shower, as pale and bare as a basenji hunting dog. Hair streaming, she ran yelling across the courtyard, grabbed the dead man's gun, ran back to the house and dashed up the stairs.

And while she had everyone's attention, I nipped back inside the house.

When the rebels smashed their way in, Ma'mselle sprang out at the top of the stairs and rained bullets down on them.

The rebels had no choice but to draw back. Two took cover at the foot of the stairs and put up a fusillade to cover the retreat.

When their guns fell silent, Ma'mselle showed herself, believing the coast was clear, and I had to do something to save her, so I grabbed a couple of baking trays and charged from the kitchen yelling and clanging them like cymbals.

A shot from point blank knocked the trays from my grasp. Dazed and deafened, I threw myself behind the door and covered my head as plaster and glass showered down. When I looked up, there was Ma'mselle, completely bare, advancing down the stairs firing from the hip. The rebels shouldered me out of the way and fled, but one pulled a knife as he ran by and slashed my arm from elbow to wrist.

Ma'mselle threw her weapon aside, grabbed her gardening shirt from the hallstand and tore the sleeve off. Working in fast, jerky movements, her breathing labored, she bandaged my arm, and only when she had staunched the flow of blood did she cover herself.

The memory will stay with me forever of Ma'mselle kneeling naked by my side, her face and arms bloody and scratched, and the burn marks on her arms and legs showing wrinkled and raw.

"Ma'mselle. Who taught you to use a gun?" I asked, and I would have asked more questions has the sound of a child crying not shocked me into silence.

Ma'mselle dashed for the stairs and I did my best to keep up. When I got to the basement she was at the door, rattling the key in the lock and wrenching the knob. Together we pressed and pounded, but the door wouldn't budge.

Ma'mselle smashed her shoulder into the door. "Miriam!" she screamed.

Muffled but unmistakable, Miriam's voice came from inside.

"I have the little ones. The black man jammed the door with his bushknife."

"Who? They're all black." Ma'mselle yelled.

"He was wearing a dirty white cloth."

"Can you move the knife?"

"It's wedged tight between the latch and the brackets."

"What's that sound?"

"I'm banging it with the heel of my sandal."

The knife clanged to the floor, the door swung open and Ma'mselle rushed in.

All the children were safe: Miriam, sandal in hand, and little Alois, Dan and Hashi huddled behind a crate.

Ma'mselle rushed to Miriam and threw her arms around her. "You've done well, Sweetie... brilliantly," she said.

"Mom, we saved them all." Miriam said. "Me and the black man with the cloth around his waist. He gathered us up, bundled us down here and jammed the door shut. When the shooting stopped I opened my eyes and he was gone. Was he an angel?"

Ma'mselle shrugged. "That's the guy who saved me last time. He has a way of showing up at the right moment," she said. "That's what angels do."

Miriam looked puzzled. "I guess," she said, and nuzzled up.

Ma'mselle winked at me. "There's another angel around here too, Mim. Last I saw, he was flapping a pair of baking trays like wings," she said. "And, he too showed up just at the right time."

A quick muster accounted for all the staff, all the children, and the policemen. Mr. Champion and the other visitors, however, had slept through the whole thing. Still in their pajamas, they came out blinking into the sunlight and asked what all the fuss was about.

But the man with no luggage and no name was nowhere to be found. We searched and asked, asked and searched, then searched and asked some more. But he was gone.

And that should have been the end of it, but I had not reckoned on Ma'mselle and her varied interests, Justin. You know how she's preoccupied with saving trees as well as orphans? Well, she's in her element here, because this part of the world is 'forest central', second only to the Amazon Basin.

Thanks to Ma'mselle, I am now quite a forest expert. Consider this, if you will: The biggest player in Africa is the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Two-thirds of it is covered in dense rainforest, and a third of that is primary growth. Can you believe it, Justin, countless hectares of virgin forest? Loggers are only getting their hands on one percent of it, but even so, illegal logging is costing the government over four million dollars a year. It's the old story: a government too lax to collect taxes and levies, poorly supervised, underpaid officials, and weakly regulated local authorities.

As for my country, Ma'mselle informs me that in the last ten years we've lost, on average, two percent of our forests a year. When she told me that, I agreed that losing it all in just half a century is too high a price to pay, but I didn't realize she was about to go to war.

Ma'mselle pulled some strings and identified the bad guys in the supply chain. She revealed everything in an article entitled 'Africa Denuded', and sent it off to her friends at the Times. That's the New York Times, my friend, not the Nairobi Times.

Well, they've done it before and they've done it again. The bad guys I'm talking about, Justin: the Asian Mafia and their cronies. They tracked Ma'mselle down. Again. But this time I was here to help.

You know, Justin, I'd swim through burning oil for Ma'mselle, but sometimes I become a little fed up. Where she is trouble is also: the curse of rectitude, my friend. I do wish she was more, well... average, the type of person who'll stop and smell the gerberas. But alas, she's not, and I'll just have to continue to risk my life for her if need be. To do otherwise is unthinkable.

Whatever the case, Justin, they drove here in a big black SUV with tinted windows ─ two of them: suits, sunglasses ─ hurled down the carcass of a goat with a placard hanging on a rope around its neck, fired a couple of shots in the air and sped away.

The placard read, simply, 'Judas goat.'

Oh, goosebumps, I'm telling you, my friend. Goosebumps. All over.

You know the expression, 'Judas goat'? It has two meanings, and they both fit Ma'mselle's suicidal inclination to thumb her nose at the powerful and the violent people of this world. In the dusty stockyards of Bujumbura bazaar, the Judas goat is the animal that leads the others to the slaughter. And in the forest, it is the animal the hunter tethers on the lion's hunting pad, to attract him to the ambush.

Now, my friend, you may be surprised to hear I have a secret love. This humble serving man owns a motor cycle built for speed. A Honda Fireblade, if you please. On my salary!

I chased that pair of Rayban-wearing suits down in their four-wheel drive and ran them into a wadi.

I hear you asking how, my friend, but must I remind you how much more maneuverable a motor cycle is than an SUV. And I am an accomplished rider, even if I say so myself.

I caught up with them and awaited my opportunity. When a rhino appeared on the road, I put the squeeze on and they had to choose whether to take the ditch or hit the beast head on. Wisely they chose the ditch, deep and wide though it was, and I hope they learned a lesson, those treacherous _kafiri_. They were not dead when I left them, and as far as I know they're still out there, drinking from puddles and eating baboon droppings.

Ma'mselle laughed so much she cried, and she cried so much she finally slept. And I, of course, hovered outside, as always. That much she deserves. And more. Much more.

_En garde_ , eh, Justin! I swing my bushknife and shape up to shadows, and pass the night hours thinking about the streamlined curves of my secret love.
More defining moments
Chapter thirty-three

Ruth

Recollections

The plane jolted, shuddered and jolted again. I rubbed my eyes and drew my mind back from the faraway place it had wandered, just in time to stop my cup sliding off the tray table.

The plane bumped and dropped.

"This could get ugly," I told myself, but the chatty woman next to me had lapsed silent, so it wasn't all bad.

Through gray streaks of cloud, I caught a glimpse of whitecaps breaking on a reef.

"No storm," I assured my fellow-passenger. "Just a bit of turbulence."

And I was spot on. In less than two minutes we were flying in clear air, and half an hour out from Rabaul the clouds cleared and I could see the dew-covered fronds of rank upon rank of palms stretching from coast to horizon flashing olive and myrtle in the morning sun.

The Coroner's assistant waiting at the airport was a pleasant, apologetic little man with plenty to say. "Thanks for coming, Ms. Feingold," he began, then without waiting for a reply drew what I considered to be a big breath for a small man and launched into his introduction. "As you know, several months have passed since the accident, during which time all efforts to confirm the identity of the body we believe to be that of Mr. Hashimoto have drawn a blank. We are aware of your injuries, and we know it is no small matter for you to make this trip, but I cannot emphasize how much we need your help," he said.

Words cascaded from the little fellow's mouth and I wondered when I would get a word in.

"None of Mr. Hashimoto's documents survived the fire," he continued, "and there are no living relatives."

"I see," I replied, and when I saw his sympathetic gaze find me in the rear view mirror I knew that was the right answer.

"Now it's all up to you now, Ms. Feingold," he added.

"It's been a long trip," I said, and shut my eyes. A few minutes later the tires crunched onto gravel and the assistant said we'd arrived at the morgue.

The doctor suggested we go straight to the identification, but I excused myself to go to the bathroom.

I jiggled a rusty faucet and succeeded in getting a trickle of water. I washed and changed into the saffron sarong I'd brought for the occasion, took out my cosmetics and set it on the vanity. Refusing to be distracted by the grimy basin and cracked, smudged mirror, I selected the lipstick labeled 'le rouge intense' and devoted the next few minutes to making my face up.

The bare corridor echoed with every step I took on the linoleum-covered floor, and the door of the identification room stared at me in such stern silence that I felt compelled to tiptoe in and speak only in a whisper.

The doctor flicked a switch and two bare fluorescent tubes blinked on. I saw a table and a metal surgical cupboard painted white, and in the far corner a shrouded figure on a gurney.

Gently, discreetly the doctor uncovered Hashi's charred body.

I stooped and touched my lips to the cinders that had once been his lips. "Le rouge intense, my love," I whispered.

And that, Justin, should have been all there was to it: hotel, cry, sleep, cry, catch plane, cry, transfer flights, cry, back to Australia, cry, and then carry on with my life.

But I hadn't reckoned on the Asian mafia. Those people, their tentacles reach everywhere. When I arrived back at my hotel in Brisbane there was a bunch of white carnations on my bed with a black leaf of paper attached on which white embossed lettering spelt out the following message in nine stark words: Soon the forest crusader will join her forester friend.

The incident cut short my cry time, Justin. I was too angry to mourn. There and then I resolved not to rely on the police, and having made a pact with myself to do things my way, I took the entire staff of the hotel to lunch, salaried, contract, the lot, gave them $100 each to be my eyes and ears and announced a $500 reward to anyone who reported anything suspicious. "But be careful," I told them. "We're talking about dangerous guys."
Chapter thirty-four

Justin

Reminiscing

Gusty winds from the South and no sun.

I put another slab of wood on the fire and wait for the kettle to boil. Hopeful, youthful eyes smile at me from the photos on the fridge door.

What a day. Even my dog wants a cup of coffee.

My gaze falls on the picture of Luke Freeman in the center and I'm still standing there looking at it, when the doorbell rings.

The mailman is at the door, and right away I see things are different. For a start, he's brought the mail to the door, that's a first. And for some reason known only to him, he's wearing a novelty hat topped with a soft toy Sylvester the Cat.

"A cat hat?" I venture, unsure whether to be amused or concerned.

"A novelty to cheer you."

"Consider me cheered."

"You do look happier."

"Absolutely. Anything for me?"

"The cat bears good news," he intones. "You've been looking for an old soldier, right?"

"Luke Freeman."

"Exactly," my letter-bearing friend says. "I have here a missive from a Mr. L. Freeman at Milford Grange War Veterans' Home."

"Mate," I gasp, "Milford Grange was my last throw of the dice."

"Why's it so important to find this guy?"

"Were it not for him, we'd know almost nothing about Rex Davidson."

"Well maybe this letter will fix that," he says, and hands me the envelope.

Hands shaking, I peer at the letter through narrowed eyes

"A freakin' monk examining a relic!" he scoffs. "I don't have time for this."

"Have the decency to hear what it says."

"We only deliver, Justin."

"I insist. Look, I'm opening it... I'm reading...

"Dear Mr. Bornmann,

"As the war wound down I became obsessed with Rex Davidson."

The mailman sighs and leans on the handlebars.

"I interviewed people returning from New Britain, spoke with survivors in Rabaul, and interrogated war criminals. I called the whole bundle of documents 'The Rex File.' But the war ended and Allied Intelligence started burning classified documents. I wanted to keep my work, so I split the papers into two bundles, walked out with one under each arm and went home," I read.

My friend is fiddling with the ignition key, but I keep reading.

"It was my last week on the job. When Combined Allied Intelligence Townsville closed, I burnt everything as ordered, except the Rex File, and then I had to think what to do with it."

I look up for a reaction. He's stopped fiddling with his keys, so I keep reading.

"A colleague who was staying on in the services, a man who could sit sphinx-like on a secret, agreed to take the documents. I wrapped the papers in grease-proof paper and took them to his home. After that it was civilian life for me, and I never gave the Rex File another thought," I read.

But my friend of limited attention span is fiddling with his keys and grinning like a jackass.

I adopt an exaggerated air of concern. "Am I detaining you?" I ask.

He tells me to keep reading, so I do. "I was annoyed when you tracked me down," I read, "but I've thought about nothing else since your letter arrived and I've come to the conclusion that the truth can't hurt anyone now. The government has better things to do than come after an old man."

"That's it, then?" asks the mailman.

The question strikes me as insolent.

"People used to care about this sort of thing," I huff.

"Didn't I bring the letter to your door?"

"Indeed you did, and wearing your cat hat, no less."

"What do you say, then?"

"Thank you. I suppose."

"You're welcome. Do you see now?"

"I'm not sure."

"Excellent."
New beginnings
Chapter thirty-five

So great a cloud of witnesses.

Pros Hebraious xii:1

Justin

Reflections

A few people know about Tuga and what he did, and some of them say he still pops up from time to time. But most folks have never heard of him, and most of those who have just shrug and say that was then and this is now.

Breeze got into computers and rode the mainframe wave to prosperity. He raised funds and set up a school on the island and visited often. In time he extended his interests to development aid and served on international boards. Last year, with unsteady hand he wrote what would be the second-last letter I would ever receive from him. "When I'm not off on some project abroad, I tend my apple and pear and cherry trees," he wrote. "I should have married, had kids. Grandkids, had I had any, would have enjoyed playing hide and seek in my orchard."

John returned to Australia and put a deposit on a grazing property. After the excitement of war, marriage wasn't for him. Neighbors told me he worked hard, did reasonably well and died with the farm paid off. A humorous, direct, reclusive man, he was respected in the district but had few friends. One summer's night, a neighbor driving by in the cool of the evening saw John's dog by the gate. He called in to check on the old fellow and found him lying dead on his bed with the lamp on and a tattered copy of Rex's diary beside him.

Jim went home to London and started a little business repairing valve radios. As cunning as a swamp rat, the sharp little fellow opened his store just as TV and transistors came onto the market, He set up a chain of electronics shops across Britain, worked hard, played hard and died a rich man. A bachelor by choice and conviction, he died without an heir and left his estate to Legacy.

The advancing Australian troops took care of Levi and the other local people who helped Rex. By the time I came looking for them almost half a century later, most of them had passed away, but I managed to track down Kamang and Ariak, who were by then stooped, gray-haired bachelors. I shared a couple of beers with them and changed to a later flight so we could talk a little longer. The two old soldiers asked me to buy them some galvanized iron, and I was glad to oblige, for an iron roof would keep them dry for years to come when they were too old to repair thatching. As I watched them drive away perched on top of the load, one waving, the other caressing the smooth curves of the metal sheets, there was a lump in my throat as big as a mango.

Late in 1973 I received a black-edged envelope. "My dear brother Michael died last week," the letter began. "He passed away in his sleep with his tattered copy of Rex's diary by his side."

The address was Convent of the Sacred Heart, Kensington, New South Wales.

Rex's lover in a convent!

I poured a glass of cabernet, took a sip, then another and another until finally, with my heart a grapeshot in my chest, I relinquished the memory to which I had clung for so long, the Botticelli painting of Miriam lying naked in Rex's arms, her amber skin satin smooth.

Neither of the Lazar sisters married. As soon as the Australians occupied Rabaul they stepped into the void created by the war. They set up a first aid post and started a school for mixed race children. In their advanced years they retired to the convent in Australia. The move was too much for Marita. She was the stronger of the two sisters, but age must have weakened her. She pined for the tropics and died at the end of her first southern winter. But Miriam lived on in good health and made many visits back to her beloved island.

A grateful Australian government awarded Rocky, Telakul and Barilae the Loyal Service Medal. Barilae died with a reputation as the greatest fight leader ever; but for all his fame, he remained a larrikin, ready to throw his laplap aside at the slightest opportunity to show off his scarred scrotum.

Greater things were reserved for that courageous old man from the South Coast, Telakul, and the fearless, swaggering Rocky. In 1945 King George VI made them both Members of the British Empire. Telakul continued as luluai in his home village but Rocky went on to play a part in nation-building and was one of the first local people appointed to the Territory's Legislative Council.

There was no medal for Maekel. He settled into village life in Central Nakanai and became a local councilor, much loved and respected. Ever the domestic man, he married, settled down and had many children. But he was nonetheless a leader and he let his light shine locally, playing a major role in resettling mountain villagers on the slopes around Silanga.

Birua followed the retreating Japanese forces and took refuge in Rabaul. He purloined a rifle, and when the garrison surrendered kept the weapon out of sight of the Australian troops; but the gun was to be his undoing. There was no place for former collaborators in the new order and the local people gave him the cold shoulder. He was jobless, without family or land, and one humid night in the monsoon season of 1945, depressed, damp and alone in his bush shelter, he shot himself.

The mountain men kept their guns until peace returned to the highlands. They arranged a festival and on the appointed day, decked out with feathers, the men of each squad danced in to the beat of the slit gong and laid their weapons down. Years later, an Australian patrol officer came across our flag, tattered and worn out but still flying, in a village high among the peaks, where it was raised every morning by the proud mountain folk, stubborn, hardy families who refused to trade their harsh, free life of hunting and gathering in the mountains for a soft, comfortable life in the lowlands.
Chapter thirty-six

When the fighter grows cool in the evening of his life... this is still no excuse to retire...

Søren Kierkegaard

Justin

Rex

For seven years I followed what few leads about Rex I could find and came up with nothing. Fortunately, however, I had my spies. One day an eagle-eyed military historian noticed that the name of a warrant officer who'd signed a Korean War transfer document in 1950 appeared on a number of demobilization papers from Combined Allied Intelligence in 1945. It wasn't much, but it was better than a poke in the eye. At last I had a name, a name that could lead to a trail.

I pored through half a century of death notices and the old warrant officer's name never came up. So, armed with the conviction that the man I was looking for was still alive, I took heart and approached every law enforcement agency, military source and archivist I'd ever put the hard word on, including the ones who were fed up with me, and within a few days someone called with a lead that led to a hospice in Brisbane.

The last living person who had known Rex!

Tears welled. The birds in the poinsettia sang more sweetly. I smelt musty records rooms. I saw the flash of photocopier lamps. And when I had finally absorbed the wonderful reality of it all, I packed my notebook and voice recorder and set off.

The old man heaved himself up on one elbow.

"You want to know about Rex?"

"Not an easy man to track down," I said.

The old man pressed the morphine feed and fixed his eyes on me. "You have to understand the times. A word out of place and an assault could fail or a ship could be lost. We were all secret squirrels, even us noncoms, and mark my word, there were other squirrels, even more secret, whose job was to watch us. Say anything to anyone about anything and you'd be out on your ear. But, a long time ago, all that, now; so I'll tell you what I know. No one gives a rat's arse any more."

"The recorder is running," I said.

"We knew Rex was running some secret outfit called Little Bull, but his identity was so secret we didn't even know his name at first. We just called him X... after the X-crystal."

"What happened to him?"

"The enemy captured him, but he got away. A Black Cat flew him to Moresby. They cleaned him up there and a few weeks later he turned up in Townsville."

"What was he like?"

"Tall, broad in the shoulders and chest. When he left for New Britain he was as fit as a flea so they said, but when I met him he was all sinews and skin. He'd been on native food and army rations for a bloody long time."

"What kind of man was he?"

"Sure stride, steady gaze. An odd mix of headstrong and humble. He had a way of drawing people to him, me included and I'm a skeptical bastard. Always have been."

"Tell me about his last day on the job."

"I stamped the discharge document and handed it to him. Standard procedure. He looked at it, smiled and said, 'It's done.' Then he stuffed it in his pocket and marched out, kind of jaunty."

"Jaunty?"

"He was singing 'The Merry Old Land of Oz.' You remember that song?"

" 'Ha ha, ho ho ho, we laugh the day away'?"

"That's the one," he said. "Do you remember the words?"

"Up at twelve, to work at one, an hour for lunch and by two we're done," I sang.

The old man laughed so hard his drip came loose.

Holding the cannula with one hand and praying the supervising nurse would not come, I rattled through syringes and bandages in the wall cabinet, found a roll of sticking plaster, sliced off a strip and secured the drip. "What about Little Bull?" I asked.

The old fellow glared. "I've already said too much," he announced.

I packed the recorder and turned to leave, but he grabbed my hand.

"Is Rex alive?" he asked.

But before I could answer a nurse bustled in to check the drip and my rough handiwork betrayed me. She rounded on me wagging an admonishing finger and threw me out.

And that was that, so I thought, but there turned out to be a postscript.

In 1999 police searching the remote valleys of the Warrumbungle for clandestine marijuana plantations, came across an isolated hut in which they found documents with the name Rex Davidson. They found no one, but I have spoken with a park ranger and at least three bush walkers who swore they'd seen a man who fitted Rex's description on this crag or that ridge.

For fourteen years I heard nothing more, then in January 2013, when fires raged through the Warrumbungles, an item appeared in the press about a mysterious man who walked down from the mountains and joined the firefighters.

I caught the next flight to Coonabarabran, started snooping, and my enquiries led me to a captain of the Salvation Army

"I was staffing the canteen," the officer said. "The place was packed, but I remember the man you're looking for. He sat on the back steps and gulped down a mug of hot coffee, black, straight up; four sugars. He looked famished, so I gave him a ham sandwich which he demolished before I had time to make him another coffee.

I joined him on my break and we had a chat there on the verandah, looking up into the hills.

" 'I love the mountains,' he said. 'They remind me.'

"Remind you of what?" I asked

" 'Everything.' "
Chapter thirty-seven

Balayés pour toujours, je repars à zero.

Swept away for always, I start again from zero.

'Je ne regrette rien' lyrics Michel Vaucaire

Justin

Ruth and me

I've ticked all the boxes except those beside Ruth's name and mine. Bornmanns tend to live a long time. Good genes. And I've had a bit of luck and taken reasonable care of myself. I have everything I need and most of what I want; except more of Ruth. The last time I saw her was at the recording of the TV spot for her spring fundraising campaign in New York. The memory of her straight-backed, legs crossed, skirt slightly up, radiant, happy waiting for the cameras to roll will stay with me forever.

Ruth's face is turned towards the camera, lipstick exquisite, make-up perfect. I don't have words to describe her eyes and the magic she has performed with liner, eye shadow and mascara. And it's not just artificial. Ruth's expression, sincere, earnest, confident, is as compelling as ever.

The director points and Ruth begins to speak, her voice soft, plain, simple.

"The war against want is a desperate struggle, made all the more desperate by the violence to which hopelessness and darkness give birth. It is a battle which will last for a very long time."

It's the centerpiece of Active World's Spring fundraising campaign and Ruth has made it short and to the point. Everyone there who knows about television seems satisfied. A green light flicks on. Congratulations begin and the mood sweeps us all along. A journalist friend of Ruth's slaps the director on the back.

It's party time. Someone pops a bottle of Moët. Someone else releases too many balloons for the small room. Waiters carry in trays of Easter buns, pots of coffee, platters laden with fruit, and baskets of croissants.

Somebody throws a streamer, then another and another. The place is a mess but nobody cares. They start throwing buns. Ruth cops one in the face and another one hits her chest, but she just sits there, warm butter running down her front, helpless with laughter.

A smiling waiter pouring coffee pauses to check out the cherry cross on the bun in Ruth's lap. "Wipe that grin off your face," she says, flashing the smile the whole world knows. Taken by surprise, the poor fellow bumps the cup and the coffee spills.

A nasty dark stain spreads down the sleeve of Ruth's blouse and shocked silence descends on the room. 'She's had enough burns' I can hear them thinking.

But the coffee's not so hot as to scald her and Ruth laughs it off.

"Omigod, a stigma!" she yells. "Nothing new here guys... party on!"

A cameraman comes round pouring nips. "If that's whisky," Ruth shouts, "fill me up."

Ruth threw more than one bun that day. She was chucking them around like tennis balls, the sleeve on her good arm rolled up. Even playing the fool she looked graceful and enigmatic. And I knew she had found the answers to Grandma Ruth's questions.

Looking to join in the fun, I opened the door. A bun flew past my ear. Ruth took a step closer and hurled another. This one didn't miss. As I watched the yellow streaks of hot butter run down my shirtfront, Ruth danced and shrieked so close I had to fight back the impulse to hug her and share the stain.

I never washed that shirt. I've hung on to it just as it is... as a keepsake... or maybe as evidence... proof that rational, kind, sensible people may sometimes throw buns, just out of sheer joy. And there's another reason I kept it: One day someone may come along and say I made all this up. Not that it need concern me, because I'll have fluttered out like a candle in the breeze by then. My shirt, however, will still be here to set the record straight. _Can you extract DNA from a bun smear?_ Just kidding.

In time the Ruth bandwagon slowed and those once keen to climb aboard began jumping off. But my ardor did not run cold and neither did hers for me.

Every other year, on the anniversary of the tragedy at B24, Ruth would post her lipstick compact to me and I would send it back the next year for her to return it the following year. But this year the package was late. Day after day I waited, my heart growing heavier as the days stretched into weeks. Ruth was probably in Africa, that's all I knew. It's hard to get information once the wet season kicks in at the end of May.

One overcast morning around the middle of June, my friend the mailman puttered up on his motor cycle around nine as usual, but this time he was back to wearing his ridiculous cat hat.

"What's up?" I said. "You can't fool me. You only wear that on special occasions."

He handed me a letter.

'Postmark 'Nairobi'?" I said. "I know nobody in Nairobi."

"Are you sure, Justin?"

"And its black-edged."

"I'll stop by tomorrow."

I poured a coffee and sat staring at that letter until the coffee went cold and my hands stopped shaking, I tore the letter open and a news clipping from the East African Standard fell out with a note attached. It was from Breeze.

"It's all in the news clipping, Justin," the old fellow wrote. "It happened six weeks after Easter. I hope you're not the last to know. I'm not into email and I didn't have your 'phone number. It took a lot of looking to find this address and I'm not even sure you are still there. Anyway, I'll get to the point. Ruth was on a flight to Bujumbura last month and the plane went down in an early monsoon storm."

If I was to breathe I had to move. Mindless with grief, I tried to get to the window but made it only as far as the wall mirror. I steadied myself on the back of a chair and stared at my reflection until the glare of the low rays of the setting sun forced me to look away.

I changed my shirt, pulled on dungarees and joggers and put on my travel vest. Taking only a backpack with a towel, a change of socks and underclothes, a box of matches, a mug, a pannikan, and a few banknotes, I set off without a backward look. It was a grand exit, but half way to the bus stop I had to turn back: I'd left behind some things I needed.

At the door, I searched my pockets for the key, shaking my head as I dithered. I hadn't imagined a new start could be such a fizzer.

The thing I needed most was my portable computer. No computer, no story. I found it on the floor beside the toilet. I cast around for anything else I had left. In the garage I saw my oilskin hanging on the wall, so I rolled it up and strapped it on my pack. My Akubra hat and my bush knife looked useful, so I plopped the hat on my head and slid the knife into its scabbard.

I tumbled my pack onto the tiles, looking to slide it to the front door. But it bumped the hallstand, sending my keys rattling to the floor. As I bent to retrieve them, I trampled my Raybans, then, as I pushed the pack through the doorway, one of the straps hooked the corner of the screen door.

The screen sprang back, wedging my bag so tightly I had to kick it free.

Today simple tasks are impossible.

I shouldered my pack and stepped out into the quietness of the morning, but as I paused by the gate to take a last look at the home I was leaving, the silence was broken by the puttering of an engine and a moment later the mailman appeared. He trundled up wearing a war surplus pilot's cap, pushed back off his forehead. My old friend was always fooling around and today was no exception.

"Bravo Justin," he said with a smile in his voice. I never thought you'd do it."

I put my pack down. "Thanks," I said. "There's no forwarding address."

A puzzled expression spread across his face. "Should there be?"

"I guess that's about it then," I said, and turned to straighten a strap.

"See you when we see you," the mailman said. "We'll be cheering for you."

"We?"

It was a fair question, so I thought, one that deserved further discussion. But my verbose friend, who had an irritating habit of lapsing silent at critical moments, just smiled, revved the engine and sped away.

"How many more of them are there?" I asked the gatepost.

At the bottom of the hill, the postman looked back, and in so doing failed to see a patch of gravel where the road forded a dry watercourse. The bike skidded into the creek bed and he flew headlong into a prickly bush.

Magpies in the myrtles, startled by the crash, ruffled their feathers and sang off key.

I ran to help, but all my friend had injured was his pride. Shaken and shamefaced, he righted his bike and set off again.

"I reckon we're designed for action," I said to his receding back, "made more for setting out than arriving."

The magpies in their treetop grandstand fluffed feathers and started a fresh round of warbling, giving voice in a strained tone which put me in mind of the self-indulgent cheering with which sports spectators cover their embarrassment when a try-hard can't cut the mustard.

As suddenly as the birds began they stopped; and I, having nothing better to do, stood for a moment and looked into the silent vault of the sky spread beyond the hills like a vast stage backdrop, and in that moment I knew exactly what to do. I felt no twinge of uncertainty; heard no voice drawing me back; sniffed not the merest whiff of doubt. It was so simple a child could do it. I took my keys from my pocket, threw them into the hydrangea and set off.
Acknowledgements

Some of the fictional events in this book were inspired by real events in a number of stories listed at <http://coastwatchingwithrayj.blogspot.com.au/> and summarized there.

I acknowledge the women and men who serve in development aid and missions. Their work leads me to re-evaluate the worth of petty concerns and small ambitions.

This story includes flashbacks to the war in the former Mandated Territory of New Guinea as it unfolded on the island of New Britain from 1942 to 1945, and the contributions of those who served there in those troubled times is acknowledged with respect and admiration.

. Troops of the Papuan Infantry Battalion, the Australian Imperial Force 39th, 53rd, 2/14th, 2/16th and 2/27th battalions, held the line on the Kokoda Trail in August and September 1942.

. The American 112th Cavalry and 1st Marine Division helped turn the tide of the war with successful landings on New Britain in December 1943.

. Native militia fought alongside Australian servicemen and women and their allies, and others, local people who did not take up guns, also risked their lives in keeping secret the presence of coastwatchers, downed airmen, native informants and militia groups.

. Australian coastwatchers served behind enemy lines and pilots, torpedo-boat crews, submariners, intelligence, signals and supply specialists and staff officers made their work possible.

. District Administration officers of the Department of the Territory of New Guinea and officers of the Australian New Guinea Administrative Unit, worked in difficult circumstances and trying conditions to restore law and order to the Territory when peace returned.

Finally, I acknowledge my written sources.

. The late Lieutenant Eric Wright whose book _If I Die_ published by Lansdowne Press in 1965 records the exploits of the New Britain coastwatchers and native militia in the Nakanai Mountains, was an indispensable resource, and I have drawn deeply and gratefully on the well of his experience.

. The wartime experiences of the USAAF pilot Fred Hargesheimer in New Britain are recounted in his book _The School that fell from the Sky_ , published by eBookstand Books, CyberRead Inc. in 2005.

. The late J. K. McCarthy's book _Patrol into Yesterday_ , published by F.W.Cheshire in 1963 was useful as a background resource; and

. Peter Stone's massive work _Hostages to Fortune: the Fall of Rabaul_ published by Oceans Enterprises in its first edition in 1995 is breathtaking in scope and provided me with a treasure trove of background detail.
About the Author

Surf, sand and sun are in the blood of almost every boy and girl raised on Sydney's northern beaches. Ray Johnston is no exception and one of his treasured memories goes to prove it. One sunny day when on assignment in northeastern China, he found himself cracking waves in his lunch break at Qingdao Beach: the only person in the water ─ with hundreds of fully-clad, well-shod tourists watching from the sand.

Nowadays Ray lives with his family in Canberra, over a hundred kilometers from the sea; but be assured, when he's not drafting a novel or travelling overseas, he's planning a trip to the beach.

Ray's first novel, White Ghosts Black Shadows was published in 2010. Before that he published technical works in linguistics and texts for EFL students, having cut his teeth as an author and publisher producing books in indigenous languages in Papua New Guinea.

Ray holds master's degrees in educational psychology and organizational psychology and a PhD in linguistics. He is a Research Associate in the School of Culture, History and Language at the Australian National University and is a member of the Centre of Excellence for the Dynamics of Language at ANU, Wycliffe Bible Translators, and SIL-PNG.

Read Ray's Smashwords Interview at <https://www.smashwords.com/interview/Rayjohnston>
Other books by this author

Ray Johnston's first novel White Ghosts Black Shadows is available in paperback.

Contact the publisher, online retailers listed below, or the author by email.

<http://sidharta.com/title/White_Ghosts_Black_Shadows>

 http://www.booktopia.com.au/white-ghosts-black-shadows-ray-johnson/prod9781921642715.html <http://www.coop.com.au/books/catalog/product/view/id/934321/s/>

Sid Harta Publishers 2010. ISBN: 1-921642-71-8 EAN13: 978-1-921642-71-5

The scene: the luscious lazy tropical town of Rabaul in New Guinea; the time: January 1942. The Japanese Imperial Force, fresh from victory at Pearl Harbour, is poised to strike, bringing a sedate era of colonial security to an end. Put yourself in the scene. The stress is as unbearable as the sultry tropical heat. And you may have less than two weeks left to live. As the Japanese invade, loyal natives, in fear of their new rulers, watch in awe as their former masters flee through their lands like lost white ghosts, vanquished and emaciated. From the shadows they do what they can to help. In this world on the brink of collapse, with the dark cloud of chaos threatening to burst, who do you trust with your life? With the army in disarray, abandoned by high command, one man, District Officer Joshua 'Jacko' Jackson, rises to the challenge and tries to coordinate an escape. But will it be too late? White Ghosts Black Shadows is a fictionalised account of what has become a mere footnote in Australian history, the Japanese invasion of Rabaul during World War Two. But more than reclaiming an almost forgotten episode of war, this compelling story is an exploration of the human psyche in the shadow of destruction.
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