The Persimmon Tree (73 page)

‘Nick Duncan,’ I said. ‘Australian Navy. Sorry about the salute — I’ve just been made lieutenant, a thoroughly undeserved promotion, and I forgot I was no longer a snotty.’

He laughed. ‘It’s a long trip, Nick.’ Then he said, ‘Afraid there’s a bit more to come, we’re pushing you straight through. We have to get you to Guadalcanal and we only fly there while there’s sunlight; Henderson Field doesn’t have night-landing equipment.’

‘Guadalcanal?’ I repeated, just to be sure, my heart suddenly beating faster.

‘Yes, Lieutenant. They urgently need your Japanese language skills. You are trained in radio, morse code, are you not?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I replied, then couldn’t help myself. ‘Whacko!’ I reckon my smile would have covered half the runway.

‘I can’t even offer you a cup of java — the next B-17 leaves in fifteen minutes.’ He pointed at an aircraft some way away. ‘They’re already warming up the engines, so we’ll need to hurry.’

I slung my kitbag over my left shoulder and we began to move at a fairly rapid pace towards the waiting B-17. ‘Guadalcanal, hey? Fancy that! I thought I’d drawn the short straw and was going to be consigned to a translator’s job here in Luganville.’

‘We’re learning fast.’ He was beginning to shout as we approached the plane and the noise of the engines made it difficult to hear. ‘If it hadn’t been for one of your coastwatcher guys, Martin Clemens, sending in one of his men to warn us of the Japanese attack at the Alligator River four days ago, we’d have been unprepared. Most remarkable story! A Jap patrol captured the messenger, Sergeant Major Vouza…’ Marty Kellard couldn’t continue above the noise of the props. He smiled and deliberately came to attention and saluted and I laughed and gave a wave before entering the plane. Nice bloke.

After another four hours’ flight we came over the island of Guadalcanal. I knew enough about this kind of Pacific island to know that fighting on it would be a bloody nightmare for soldiers, though it was almost perfect for a coastwatcher. The island is bordered by a narrow coastline plain that varies from a few hundred yards wide west of the Matanikau River to a width of several miles. The flat land is covered in kunai grass that cuts the flesh when you brush past it, whereas the peaks, up to six thousand feet, are densely covered with brooding, dark green jungle.

The best way to describe the landscape that was below us is to imagine a giant hand reaching down and grabbing the island as if it were a swatch of fabric, then pulling it to a point and letting it fall again to create a series of incredibly steep ridges and valleys. It was the type of country I knew and, strangely, one I loved. I could anticipate the fetid jungle smell brought about by everything seeming to drip and rot as you watched. This was where the perpetually dark, wet, twisted labyrinths of vines seemed to eventually choke everything, and where the most dangerous element is one of the smallest — the malaria-carrying
anopheles
mosquito.

I was completely whacked when we finally made a quick and dirty landing on the metal airstrip. I’d been in the air, or waiting to reboard, for the best part of twenty hours. During the flights I’d been cramped into what was little more than a few canvas straps that pass for a passenger seat on a B-17. Apart from a cold croissant and a tepid cup of coffee in a paper cup, I hadn’t eaten since the lunch on Fraser Island.

But the Americans, as ever, were friendly and hospitable. The marine sergeant sent to meet me saluted and introduced himself as Joe Polanski. He had a jeep waiting at the edge of the runway. When I remarked on the strange construction of the runway he explained it was made with marsden matting. This was an interlinked, metal-strip system made from high-tensile steel; hundreds of thousands of small sections were clipped together to make a firm, safe surface for the heaviest of loads, spreading the weight of an aircraft landing or taking off evenly throughout its surface. This unique landing strip or runway was an unsung American innovation that made all-weather flying possible in the rain-sodden Pacific.

On the way to the marine base, upon hearing I hadn’t eaten in a while, Sergeant Polanski immediately suggested he take me to the sergeants’ mess when we arrived. ‘I can take you to da officers’ mess, sir, but da grub it’s better at ours. The ingredient, dey da same, but we has got us a better chef who, by da way, work at da Waldorf Astoria in Noo York before he joined up after Pearl Harbor.’

‘Sergeant, you don’t happen to come from Chicago, do you?’ I asked.

He looked surprised. ‘How you know dat, sir? Dat’s me, sirree, Chicago born an’ bred.’ I was being escorted by a Polish version of the little bloke, except that Polanski was a big bloke — maybe not quite my size, but Kevin Judge would have almost fitted under his armpit.

Arriving at the base I saw that Guadalcanal was no Luganville. It comprised a few scattered quonset huts, together with hundreds of tents and hastily thrown-together shacks, each with a dugout or slit trench beside it. The whole lot was built on a large copra plantation so that the tops of the coconut palms, together with the camouflaged material of the tents, would have effectively concealed it from Japanese aircraft.

The sergeants’ mess was a large tent that was open at the sides to let the breeze through (what breeze?), with the kitchen in another similar tent abutting it. Food smells pervaded the air and I could feel my mouth beginning to salivate. That’s one thing about the Yanks, they look after their men in the field. Sergeant Polanski was right — the food was excellent. He waited until I’d had a second cup of coffee before saying, ‘Colonel Woon, he be waitin’ ta see you, sir.’

‘Shit! I’m sorry,’ I apologised, rising quickly from my chair. Then glancing at my watch I saw it was five o’clock. ‘Sergeant, why didn’t you mention it before? We could have gone directly to see him.’

‘Sir, it jes’ ain’t right to send a man inta combat wid a empty belly.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, planes comin’ in all da time; Colonel Woon, he only Intelligence, he ain’t gonna know what B-17 you gonna be arrivin’ in.’

‘But it’s 1700 hours, knock-off time. He isn’t going to be happy.’

‘Knock-off time?’ he asked, then realised my meaning. ‘He ain’t going home ’til he’s seen you, sir. Dere’s a war on, donchaknow.’

What did he mean by combat?
I thought, as I hastily tried to tidy my crumpled blue serge naval uniform that was completely inappropriate for the tropical conditions. I remembered thinking that it would be crushed to buggery if I stuffed it in my kitbag with the Owen submachine-gun, and that since I would probably have to front up in Luganville and report to Intelligence HQ I’d better try to look like an officer instead of an oversized schoolboy in the standard tropical Australian Navy uniform.

Big, big mistake, Nicholas Duncan! Now I was sweating like the proverbial pig and the collar of my white shirt was rimmed with dirt. I was making a pathetic job of being a smartly turned out navy lieutenant.

I tried to brush the creases from my jacket, pulling at the hems below the pockets and smoothing the lapels. I should have removed it when I’d entered the aeroplane but it was bloody cold at altitude and I’d kept it on. I must have looked like a derro who’d salvaged a tired-looking naval uniform from a rubbish bin. I dusted off my cap, only to see that somewhere along the line I’d picked up a grease mark on the crown that was half the size of my fist. So much for the trappings of my new unentitled rank.

Sergeant Polanski must have sensed my nervousness, and in an attempt to comfort me increased my anxiety by saying, ‘Colonel Woon, he a good guy, sir. Only sometimes you get on da wrong side o’ him, he got him a fine temper dat go off like one o’ dem Chinese firecracker.’

That must have been what he meant by my going into combat with a full belly. I was about to meet an irascible American colonel. Equipped with this warning and hoping he wasn’t a stickler for dress code, I followed the marine sergeant to the colonel’s office, came to attention at the open door and saluted, then announced, ‘Lieutenant Nick Duncan, sir. Royal Australian Navy!’

‘Come in, Nick,’ the colonel said, in a pleasant enough voice.

I fronted, bringing myself to rigid attention, hoping that my smart salute might make up for my untidy turn out, and said again, ‘Nicholas Duncan reporting for duty, sir.’

‘Well, hello there, son. It’s real good to have you with us.’ He smiled, indicating a chair with a sweep of the hand. He had an open face and a nice smile; a big man, not that tall, but built, as they say, like the proverbial brick shithouse. ‘Please sit, you’ve had a long flight, never easy. I was in your country, in Bris-bane, a month back, real nice folk. Getting back to Luganville was bad enough, now you’ve added another four hours. How you feeling, son?’

‘Not too bad, sir.’

‘That’s good. We’re mighty pleased to see you. I’ve read your dossier. You’ve packed a fair bit into a short life. How fluent are you in Japanese? Could you, for instance, translate a radio broadcast?’

‘Yes, sir. Japanese radio operators are selected for their clear diction.’

‘What? In the field of battle?’

‘Yes, sir, they are specifically trained. It’s the Japanese way. For example, the mechanic that works on the engine doesn’t know anything about the gearbox or the diff. They do one thing and do it very well. Personal initiative is not a prized component in their society.’ I was mouthing off, being a smart-arse, but was too nervous to keep my answers short and crisp. ‘There aren’t too many Japanese who are jacks-of-all-trades,’ I said, gilding the lily further.

‘And you learned all this by the age of eleven?’ he asked with a half smile, his eyes amused.

He’d obviously read my dossier. ‘No, sir. My father is an academic who took a First at Oxford in Japanese studies. He worked for thirteen years as a teacher in Tokyo. I guess I picked all this up from listening to him. He is also somewhat of an anthropologist who has made a life study of the Japanese.’
Shut up ferchrissake, Nick
, I said inside my head. My replies were becoming much too garrulous.

‘Interesting,’ Colonel Woon remarked, then stretched back in his chair. ‘Well, son, we can certainly use your talents.’ He suddenly changed the subject and, leaning slightly forward, said, ‘You know, Nick, I feel sure I know you. That we’ve met before and, if not, that your name has cropped up somewhere over something…’ His voice trailed off.

‘I wouldn’t think that likely, sir. Though, of course, both Nick and Duncan are fairly common Scottish names, a bit like John Brown with the Brits. Someone else with the same name, perhaps?’
Dammit! Still too many words!

He seemed to be thinking. ‘Yes, possibly.’ Then he suddenly lunged forward and slammed his fist down onto the surface of his desk. ‘Yes! Goddamn, yes! Tjilatjap airport! What was her name? Anna, that’s right, Anna! The most beautiful young creature I’ve ever seen. Violet blue eyes, remarkable!’ He pointed at me. ‘She gave me a letter for a Nicholas Duncan, care of the Archbishop of Perth! I promised I’d see it got to him. That you?’ He could see by my expression that he’d hit the jackpot. ‘Goddamn yes, it is.’

‘Anna? You met Anna — in Java, sir?’ I stammered, overcome by surprise.

‘You get the letter? I sent it in a top Army Air Force priority bag from Colombo.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you very much. It… it was astonishing. I mean, er… unexpected, wonderful!’ I had lost it completely, overwhelmed by the coincidence.

‘Anna? She your sweetheart?’ he asked, smiling.

‘Yes, sir, very much so. I was expecting her to arrive in Australia by boat even before I got there myself.’

‘You mean in the yacht you renamed
Madam Butterfly
?’ The colonel was proving once again that he’d read my dossier thoroughly.

‘Yes, sir, when she didn’t… well, I’ve been terribly worried ever since. The letter… at least she’s… she’s alive,’ I stammered, suddenly close to tears, hating myself for showing my emotions in front of the American colonel.

‘We don’t have much news coming out of Java, Nick. With the natives cooperating with the Japanese there’s no resistance movement to tell us what’s happening. But the little we have suggests that the Dutch women and children are only now being rounded up and placed in concentration camps. With no resistance, I guess the Japs saved themselves from having to feed them for the first six months after their invasion. Chances are, if she got through those, she’ll be okay. That’s a little girl with one hell of a lot of initiative,’ he said, attempting to comfort me.

‘Sir, if you hear anything —
anything
coming out of Java, could you, would you please let me know?’ I said, using influence I didn’t possess.

‘Of course, Nick. It isn’t my theatre any more, but I’ll make a point of finding out what I can for you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘The yacht,
Madam Butterfly
, did you name it after her, or because you’re a butterfly collector?’ he asked.

‘Well, yes, sir — after Anna. The “Madam” was sort of… in anticipation,’ I grinned.

He laughed. ‘Well, let’s hope for the best, eh, Nick? War and loved ones — never a good combination.’ He’d been sitting forward with his elbows on the desk, or rather folding table, and now he straightened up and leaned backwards again. ‘Well, I suppose you’d like to know why you’re here, son?’ he asked.

‘Well, yes, sir. Actually it’s a tremendously nice surprise. I thought I was going to be stuck in a translator’s office in Luganville.’