Fear Drive My Feet (10 page)

On the top of the ridge forming the east side of the Busu Valley was another small
settlement, whose people were already assembled, waiting to take over the carrying.
We sat on our patrol-boxes to rest for a few minutes, and paid the men from Gain
with a stick of tobacco and a piece of newspaper each. The lads who had joined in
the line, carrying the lamps and other odds and ends, asked for salt, so we gave
them a tablespoonful each. One by one they stepped gravely forward and presented
a leaf for the salt to be placed on. Then they squatted down and made neat little
bundles, folding the leaves and binding them tightly with pieces of vine. I often
noticed the serious expressions on the faces of some of these ten-year-old brats.
When they had a job to do they tackled it much more purposefully than the majority
of European children of the same age, displaying a sense of responsibility far beyond
their years.

We walked for a further hour and a half along the main track, a well-defined and
more or less graded bridle-path, with Les at the head of the line and myself at the
rear. The police-boys were interspersed among the carriers. The carriers from Gain
had gone home, after handing over to these new carriers, but the luluai and tultul
of Gain were honouring us with their company as far as the camp. The tultul walked
with me at the rear, pointing out features of interest and telling me the names of
all the mountains. The men in front, he told me, were watching carefully for a certain
mark on a tree – indicating the turn-off to the camp. Before long the line stopped. They
had come to the marked tree. Loads were put down and everyone took a breather before
continuing on the last lap of the journey. Moving off
again, we plunged straight
into thick bush, grasping saplings and vines to haul ourselves up a steep, slippery
slope. It took only about twenty-five minutes to reach the camp on the summit of
the hill, but we were exhausted. Only a couple of days off the Markham plain, we
were not yet in training for mountain walking.

The camp consisted of two small grass huts concealed in a patch of thick bamboos.
It was an excellent spot for a hide-out, for there was a back way out for escape
into another valley; anyhow, a Japanese who had just climbed that hill would be in
no condition to put up a fight. He would doubtless feel just as we did now – about
ready to drop.

We looked inside the huts, but they were empty; then round the encircling green walls
of bamboo. All was silent. The place seemed deserted. Then a native holding a rifle
stepped out of the foliage, and approached Les, whom he obviously knew, with a broad
grin.

‘Goo' mornin', master,' he said.

‘ 'Morning, Buka. Master Jock 'e stop?'

‘No-got. 'Im 'e no stop,' the boy replied.

‘ 'Im 'e go where?'

‘Master, me no savvy 'im 'e go where.'

That was that. Jock had left. The boy added that he had moved on two days earlier,
and had taken the tultul of the nearby native village of Wampangan with him. When
this man returned we would be able to find out where Jock had gone.

I had been studying Buka during this conversation. He was the blackest man I have
ever seen, as black as polished ebony, and his glossy skin shone in the sun. His
real name was Ure, but he was called Buka after his home island in the Solomon Islands
group. These people probably have the blackest skins of any New Guinea natives.
Buka was a police-boy, though at this moment he was not
wearing his uniform. Instead,
he sported a long silk loincloth of brightest canary yellow.

As Les and I moved into one of the huts we told Buka to get a fire going.

‘I suppose we might as well wait here until we hear something from Jock or Ian,'
I said.

‘Might as well. It's no good chasing round the country until we find out where they've
gone or what's happening.'

We paid off our carriers and gave the luluai and tultul of Gain a small present each.
Not far from the spot where we had turned off the track at the foot of the hill there
was another little hamlet of six or seven houses, and we told the departing carriers
to call in there and ask the people to bring us up some food. Then we sat down and
started on our lunch, polishing off the six eggs we had bought the day before from
the luluai of Gain.

‘The camp looks a bit damp,' I remarked as we lay reading on our bed-sails after
our meal. ‘Why did Jock have it built directly on the ground?'

‘Mainly a question of time,' Les replied. ‘The whole joint was run up in about half
a day, and you can't have hot and cold water in that time – or a raised floor, either.'

‘Fair enough, I suppose. Anyhow, they tell me Jock's pretty tough, so I don't suppose
he'd notice the difference!'

‘Tough? Boy! Wait till you've been round the bush with him for a while – you'll find
out just what toughness is! Jock's one of the toughest things on this island.'

There was some tinned meat and some biscuits in the house, and we set about making
an inventory of our combined stock of food. My own rations were few, but Les had
quite a lot, all specially prepared for his expedition. Oatmeal, dried meat, sugar,
tea, chocolate, were made up in separate cellophane packets, each containing sufficient
for one man for one meal. With the local vegetables
and fruit we reckoned we would
have enough food to last four people for about ten days. But our supply of trade
goods was running low, and when the salt and tobacco were exhausted we wouldn't be
able to buy any more native foods. The greatest drain on our trade goods was the
food that we had to buy for the police and our other boys, who lived almost entirely
on local produce. However, we calculated that we could make the trade goods last
at least three weeks. Also, it was possible that Jock had some with him.

Next day a small group of men and women from the hamlet below came up to sell us
some of their produce. While we purchased bananas and sweet potatoes they chattered
freely among themselves in their own language. We couldn't understand what they were
saying, of course, but two words of pidgin kept recurring – sheep-sheep and bulmacow,
meaning sheep and cattle. We pricked up our ears.

‘Wonem this-fella sheep-sheep now bulmacow?' asked Les.

‘Master, some-fella sheep-sheep now bulmacow 'e stop long place belong mission,'
replied one of the men.

‘Fresh meat!' Les and I exclaimed at once.

Taking Kari with me, I set off almost at once for Boana Mission, which lay on the
far side of the valley of the Bunzok River, a couple of hours' walk away. If we could
find a beast to kill for meat we would not only have the rare pleasure of eating
some fresh grilled chops or steak but would be able to spin out our rather meagre
tinned rations.

Through the hot sunshine we followed the winding track down into the valley of the
Bunzok to Dzendzen village. As we passed between the grass houses and halted in the
clear space in the centre of the village, I felt that the people received us with
anything but enthusiasm. They stood glowering sullenly on the outskirts, making no
effort to approach us. However, we managed to persuade three or four of them to come
to Boana and help us bring back the meat we hoped to get.

A few minutes' walk from Dzendzen we had to cross the Bunzok, which, like all rivers
in these mountains, was a foaming torrent that thundered through a course strewn
with enormous boulders. The bridge consisted of a huge tree felled across the stream,
the top roughly flattened with an adze. The natives told us that the missionary used
to ride his horse over this log without dismounting.

The climb up the far side of the valley was steep, and we paused half-way, in a small
garden, while the boys cut lengths of sugar-cane for us all. It was wonderfully refreshing
stuff, and we eagerly sucked the cool, sugary juice, spitting out the coarse, tough
pith.

Before the war Boana Mission had been a little community on its own. There were about
a score of small kunai native dwellings, several very large and lofty thatched buildings
made of native materials – these were the school and church buildings – and the European
dwellings, the two iron-roofed houses that Les and I had glimpsed from Gain. One
consisted of only a couple of rooms, while the other was a typical mission building
– rectangular and very spacious, surrounded entirely by a wide veranda. The country
immediately about the settlement was open and undulating, and all around dark-forested
mountains rose up. There were some citrus-trees, an orchard, a little coffee, and
the overgrown remains of several large gardens. The most level piece of ground had
been made into a small airstrip for the planes which brought stores up from Lae on
the coast.

Kari and I sat on the veranda of the larger house. We were hot, and I spread my shirt
on the ground to dry out the sweat. We looked about curiously at this abandoned,
half-ruined settlement which lay so silent in the baking sunlight. Suddenly a serious-looking
middle-aged native
stood before us. Neither Kari nor I had seen his approach; a ghost
could not have materialized more silently. But he smiled gently, and the cool, ripe
papaw he handed us was real enough. Kari halved it with one stroke of his bayonet,
and we ate greedily, talking between mouthfuls to the man who had brought it.

He explained that he had been a mission employee and had run away to his distant
home village when the war started. After a few months he had returned, and had been
dismayed at the ruinous state of everything. He had decided to settle down alone
and do his best to look after the place.

As the native pointed out the damage we could see he was near tears. Japanese planes
had bombed the house, believing it to be occupied by Australian troops, and water
had leaked into almost every room. The scene was one of utter chaos. A large ornately
carved organ seemed to be the only thing that had escaped. A loose shutter squeaking
and banging in the wind was unnerving me, and everywhere was the smell of decay.
I shivered. From the encircling mountains a thousand pairs of Japanese eyes might
be watching us. Even the mission boy, friendly and helpful though he was, seemed
a little unreal and sinister.

Kari did not like the atmosphere either. ‘Place no good, master. Me no like!' he
rumbled in his deep voice.

I could see several sheep grazing near the edge of the clearing. ‘Come on,' I said.
‘Let's get one of these animals and get out of here.'

The four men from Dzendzen were resting in the shade a short distance away, and we
called to them to follow us. Kari shot the nearest sheep neatly through the head,
and after we had skinned it we gave the entrails to the carriers. They wrapped the
carcass in leaves to keep the flies off, and fastened it to a stout pole for carrying.

The mission boy had been wringing his hands and muttering as he watched all this,
but we did our best to
soothe his feelings with a handful of salt. Then, having instructed
him to tell nobody of our presence and to warn us immediately upon the first sign
of Japanese patrolling, we made our way back across the Bunzok and up the hill to
the camp.

In high hopes of fresh meat, Les had delayed lunch, but had the kettle boiling and
the pan ready for the sheep's liver. We cut off some chops for ourselves and handed
the rest of the carcass over to the police, who divided it. They dispatched most
of it that night at one sitting.

Shortly after dawn next morning, just as Les and I were getting dressed, Kari stepped
into the house.

‘Master,' he said, ‘me like go back long Markham.'

I looked over at Les, who pulled a wry face.

‘Pity, isn't it?' I said. ‘I promised John Clarke I'd send Kari back as soon as I
got the hang of things here.'

‘Nothing for it, I suppose. We could do with an experienced policeman, though.'

I nodded to Kari and told him it was all right to leave. He went out to the house-police,
thrust his few belongings into his pack, rolled up some scraps of meat left from
the night before, and was ready for the road. I gave him a couple of sticks of tobacco,
and a hastily scribbled note for John, telling of our safe arrival. Kari stowed
them carefully in his haversack, and took a backward pace.

‘All right, master – me go now.'

He smacked the butt of his rifle smartly in salute, turned about, and his big black
figure was almost instantly swallowed up by the bamboos. Travelling alone and unencumbered,
he would be back at Bob's soon after nightfall.

‘He's a real man,' I thought, as I looked at the bamboos into which he had vanished.
‘I hope I see him again.'

Midday next day brought a visitor in the person of Singin, tultul of nearby Wampangan
village. A smooth-tongued, plausible, and intelligent man, Singin had a thin,
keen
face with yellow-brown skin – he looked as though he had Malay or Chinese blood in
his veins. He had been away with Jock, and from his little string bag he fished out
a crumpled scrap of paper bearing a message. In it Jock ordered Buka to follow Singin
and bring the trade goods and the box of food. Clearly Jock had no idea that Les
and I were at the camp, for the message was written in pidgin – to be read to Buka
by Singin, one of the few natives in the area who could read and write.

Singin told us that he had left Jock in the village of Samandzing, about four days'
walk away. Singin was not sure where Ian Downs was, but said that he was somewhere
‘farther on'.

I pulled out the map I had drawn with Bill Chaffey. There was no sign of a village
called Samandzing.

‘What about your map, Les?' I asked.

‘Soon see. It's in my pocket,' he replied, pulling out something that looked like
a handkerchief. It was a map Ian had drawn on a piece of silk. It could be screwed
up in the pocket, put under water, rolled in the mud and washed out, emerging from
all this as good as the day it was made.