Scatter the Stars, page 13
One of the elders of the village, wearing only a decorated grass belt and a necklace of shell and woven string below his nose and ear decorations, came to greet them. His skin was covered in scars and deeply etched tribal markings. His dark skin shone like old wood burnished from years of polishing.
Ammo spoke to him and pointed at Richie and the old man’s face splintered into smiles and creases showing blunt yellow teeth. Richie smiled back and held out his hand, shaking the old man’s thin fingers. ‘Hamamas bilong mi.’ (‘Pleased to meet you.’) The old man continued to grin, wobbling his head slightly.
Richie pointed to one of the wooden ladders leading to a door and the elder nodded and smiled, gesturing upwards. Richie bounced up the ladder to the excited shrieks of the delighted villagers. The interior of the house was a cool and gloomy tunnel. Split bamboo, bound together for flooring, formed supports for the roof of thatched sago palm leaves. Along the sides were smaller cubicles partitioned by a few crossed sticks. High along one side ran a long shelf on which were stored chattels and pots. Sleeping mats were on the floors along the wall. The women in the house huddled, giggling and chattering, in one corner. An old man, toothless and bent to no more than four feet tall, rose as the apparition of the white man appeared in their doorway. Richie glanced around at the few artefacts, the string and cane baskets, the earthen pots, feathered ornaments, a shield and spears against a wall, an improbable fire burning amidst all the grass and flammables. He gave them a cheerful wave and scrambled back down the ladder.
Getting directions from the villagers, Ammo led the group towards the river. They gingerly settled into two rough wooden canoes and with Ammo and a few locals paddling they soon reached a muddy tidal flat. In the shallows was a shattered landing craft, a rusting relic of the war. The sun was high, the heat and humidity appalling and once they stepped out of the canoes, they sank to their ankles in mud. It was only the mad adventure of the whole hunting expedition that encouraged them to take up their sharp wooden spears and small shovel and sally further.
‘Tally ho,’ shouted Richie with an absurdly exaggerated upper-class English accent as he wallowed into the mud when his first quarry scuttled into view. But he was soon forced to abandon the chase and hang onto a mangrove tree for support.
‘Better watch me get one first,’ advised Ammo. ‘There’s an art to picking them up and keeping all your fingers intact.’ His experience hunting the dinner plate-sized crabs clearly showed. Now aware of the need to exercise considerable caution the hunters fanned out, each carrying a sugar bag in which to store their haul. The safest approach was to overtake the fleeing crab and spear it to something solid for retrieval. If the crab got far enough ahead it would quickly dig down into the mud and its capture would become more difficult and certainly muckier. Catching them on the run was an obstacle race that taxed agility to the limit.
At first they cursed and shouted in frustration, then eventually the mad humour of the situation won through. Richie spotted a beauty, the biggest of the day. With wooden spear ready, he stalked the wily old monster. Rather than bury itself in soft mud, it scrambled under the tangled roots of a massive mangrove quite close to the rusting barge, turned and waved hand-sized claws in defiance.
‘Don’t you give me the finger, you old bastard.’ Richie squatted down, bottom in the mud, to reach in with his spear, pinning the crab to a root. He then tried to crawl closer to pick up the crab in the approved manner when he became bogged, unable to go forward or back. One foot felt a maze of small roots and something unexpectedly firm. As he pressed down to take advantage of the solid support, his foot slipped and was instantly caught. He shuffled his other foot in the slimy mud for better leverage and felt himself sinking further. Then his trapped ankle twisted and a sharp pain seared through the sole. He was stuck fast in something that felt almost metallic.
‘Fuck,’ he cursed and straightened up to take stock of the situation. He waited a moment then tried to free himself again, using the spear as a lever. The foot wouldn’t budge and he realised he needed help. The crab, now freed of the spear, crawled off. ‘Bastard,’ hissed Richie. Again he tried to free himself but the effort only seemed to make the situation worse. He looked around for assistance but the others had moved off some distance. Richie let out a long ‘Coo-ee.’ He heard answering loud laughter and a small chorus of yodels and coo-ees.
‘It’s not a bloody joke,’ he shouted. ‘I’m trapped. Foot’s caught. I need help.’
Thrashing and splashing through the mud, Ammo and Woolly hung their bags of crabs over the nearby tree while Richie explained what had happened. Ammo prodded the mud beside the trapped leg with his spear and felt the solid object under the boot. ‘Feels like metal. Give me that shovel, Woolly.’
He locked home the collapsible handle and thrust it into the mud, confirming the trap was indeed metal. ‘Must be some crap off that old landing barge. Probably a rusty edge hooked into your bootlaces or something. Have you out in a flash.’ He began digging fast while Richie and Woolly kept the mud from falling back into the hole with their hands.
‘Terrific fun,’ said Richie with some irony, and they all chuckled.
‘I can feel it now,’ announced Ammo. ‘Metal all right. Ah, a bit of a ring by the look of it. Okay, Woolly, grab it.’
Ammo and Woolly hauled on the mud-covered metal, slowly moving it sideways rather than up, but it threw Richie off balance and he fell flat on his back in the mud. ‘Don’t fuckin’ laugh,’ he groaned in mock anger.
But Ammo showed no sign of laughing. He had put up his hand in a warning signal to Woolly. ‘Stop,’ he said urgently. ‘Jesus,’ he added softly in obvious dismay at what he could see in the mud.
‘What is it?’ asked Richie, trying to sit upright for a better view.
‘A bomb. A bloody bomb, mate. Don’t move.’
Richie groaned and sat forward. ‘A bomb!’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe it!’ He didn’t know whether to laugh or panic.
‘Your foot has slipped through the ring thing at the top. It’s rusted, but still looks pretty solid. Don’t move while we try to figure out what to do now. It could still be a live bomb.’ He stepped back and leaned against the tree.
Woolly also stepped back and mud began slipping down around the exposed metal. ‘Lots of them around, boss. Mebbe Jap bomb.’
‘Yeah. Probably one that was dropped when the landing barge was attacked.’
‘How big is it?’ Richie became aware that he was sweating profusely. He wiped a muddy hand across his brow.
‘Huge. Too big for us to lift even if it was okay to move it.’
‘Well, someone had better do something. This part of our resort village is tidal,’ quipped Richie, trying to boost his spirit with humour as well as hopefully inspiring a solution.
Ammo looked around and saw Walshie, Thommo and some natives wading towards them. ‘Well, we’ve got more muscle arriving. Maybe they’ll have a clever idea. I reckon we’ve got an hour or so at least before the tide is right out. The problem is that these things can go off if you fiddle with them. Very nasty. And it would take a day to get an expert from Moresby, even if there was one in residence, which is doubtful.’
‘Between a rock and a hard place, you might say,’ answered Richie. He turned to the advancing party. ‘You blokes had better wait back there a bit. My foot is caught in a bomb.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Thommo in disbelief.
‘No bullshit, Thommo. We’ve got ourselves a fair dinkum emergency with this one. Big bomb. His foot is stuck in part of the fin and has swollen,’ said Ammo.
‘Jap bomb or American?’ shouted Walshie.
‘How the bloody hell would I know?’ shouted Ammo. ‘And what difference does it make? They all go bloody bang.’
Walshie signalled the rest of his group to stay put and edged forward. ‘Don’t move, Richie. Stay dead still.’
‘A better choice of words would be in order,’ replied Richie. ‘I hope the sight of it gives you a bright idea.’
‘It might. I used to be in a bomb disposal unit during the war . . .’
Richie and Ammo looked towards the American as if a miracle had occurred right before their eyes. ‘You’re a bomb disposal expert? Honest?’
‘Honest injun . . .’
‘Every film crew should have one,’ said Richie.
‘Don’t move. I’m just going to displace some of this mud. The rest of you get back.’ But no-one moved as he carefully probed until his arm was totally immersed. Then he slowly pulled his arm out and squatted on a nearby root. For a brief moment, Richie and Walshie looked at each other. They both knew just how dramatically their relationship with each other had changed. Their clash over the racial issue mattered for nothing now. Both their lives were on the line.
‘Well?’ said Richie, breaking the silence.
‘It’s a Jap bomb. Probably a thousand pounds weight. Your foot is caught in the tail vanes. You might as well be married to it. The good news is that the nose of the bomb is lying flat, not nose down.’
‘Why is that such good news?’
‘Because we can get at the nose fairly easily. And that’s where I have to work on the fuse. I hope I haven’t lost my touch.’
‘You’re going to give it a go?’ Richie was still incredulous.
‘Not much choice, is there? Unless you have a better idea.’
Richie shook his head.
‘Okay. First, Woolly, I need a couple of those feathers you’ve got in your hair and that hook.’ He pointed to the metal hook Woolly carried on his belt, a hook used for cleaning crabs. ‘And we’ll need a rope out of the canoes. And a few very strong bamboo poles, better take the natives back to shore and cut some down. Quick now. And bring back that tin of rusty tools I saw in one of the canoes.’
As the others set out for the shoreline, Walshie dug down to the nose of the bomb and carefully scraped away the mud and surface rust and then used feathers and water from his bottle to clean the fuse area. ‘HEGP 92. Not very accurate, but powerful,’ he muttered, as if thinking aloud. ‘Arming vane should be just down here with a bit of luck.’ He continued moving mud very cautiously and with enormous concentration. Richie held his breath and was relieved when Walshie eventually pulled back and squatted beside him with a slight grin.
‘Which means?’
‘It means the spindle hasn’t sheared the copper wire.’
‘Well?’
‘The arming vane didn’t spin right off. It’s still there. The spindle hasn’t sheared the copper wire. I can see that much. That’s why the bomb didn’t go off.’
‘Can you get the fuse out?’
‘Mebbe. Can’t even think of trying to get your foot free with the fuse in there.’
Woolly returned with the tool box and rope and the others were on their way back with the bamboo poles. They stopped a few paces back and waited while Walshie explained what had to be done. Ammo described what was happening to the natives who were sent back to wait by the canoes.
First the crab pick and a rusty screwdriver were wedged gently into a groove under the arming vane, preventing any movement. Then several of the bamboo poles were lashed together and hung from tree branches directly over the bomb. Then ropes were carefully passed under the bomb and tied to the poles, thus suspending it in the mud and restricting accidental movement. Other poles were wedged in the mud beside the bomb.
Walshie ordered everyone back to the distant shoreline. ‘Now comes the tricky bit. But I think I’ll have a smoke first if you don’t mind.’
‘Be my guest,’ said Richie, maintaining a bold front that belied his apprehension and sense of possible disaster.
They both smoked in silence for a while then Richie spoke with forced casualness. ‘Tide’s turned.’
‘That’ll stuff up the crabbing.’
‘Yeah. Too bad.’
They smoked on and Walshie fiddled with the very rusty Stillson wrench from the tool box. It was the only tool he had for the job but it fitted the fuse head. He flicked his cigarette butt into the mud. ‘Ready, or do you want to finish your cigarette?’
‘Nearly finished. You might as well get started.’
They exchanged a brief glance that acknowledged the moment. Walshie nodded then crouched down close to the nose of the bomb, clearing back some mud with the shovel before putting the Stillson on the head of the complicated fuse unit. He slowly began to strain on the handle. Several times he pulled, each time increasing the pressure, but there didn’t seem to be any movement at all.
He eased back, sat up and wiped his hands on his shirt. ‘Ritchie, it’s not budging. I’m going to do the unthinkable and give it a bit of a jerk. Okay? Nothing big. Just a jerk to try to break the seal.’
‘Why tell me?’
‘Just thought you’d like to know.’
‘Thanks.’ He forced a smile.
‘Any time. Here we go.’
Walshie strained on the Stillson, steadily building up pressure then gave a short sharp jerk. He said nothing but took a fresh grip on the handle and again applied increasing pressure and this time felt the slightest movement. ‘Got it, man. Fucking well got it,’ he whispered. He flashed a grin at Richie. ‘It’s coming. Keep holding your breath. This thing could be quite unstable.’
A couple more turns and the fuse was moving easily on its thread. Soon Walshie was holding it triumphantly above his head for the crowd over by the canoes. A ragged cheer rang out and they began splashing through the rising water towards the two men. Getting Richie’s foot free from the damaged vane was relatively simple once brute force and poles could be used to prise the rusted steel.
Richie looked at the American and reached out with his hand. ‘Thanks . . . mate.’
‘You’re welcome.’
SIX
Port Moresby 1952
Richie wandered along the waterfront wearing sunglasses and a straw panama hat that combated the glare from the corrugated-iron roofs of the shipping sheds. The sunlight was harsh, the heat searing. Everything he looked at seemed to be etched in hard glass. It was a dry, dusty township ringed by patchy hills. He’d been expecting the tropics, but here he’d found the likes of barren western Queensland. The capital of what was officially called the Australian Colony of Papua and the Trust Territory of New Guinea it may be, but to Richie this place felt like he was walking on the edge of a forgotten world.
Who knew or cared about this remote island? Sydney lay far to the south and his life there seemed a hundred years ago. He stood facing across the water, behind him the near impenetrable, mysterious and little explored land of New Guinea and Papua. He longed to get into the highlands, to go to the north coast on the New Guinea side, which he’d heard was lush and beautiful and different from the south Papuan coastline. In his short time here, he’d heard enough stories of adventurers and fortune seekers to excite his own dreams of possible wealth. Acting was fun but the film business was fickle. Richie began to wonder if he could combine two worlds, acting for six months a year to earn a living, then returning to New Guinea and prospecting for gold, or maybe running a coffee or rubber plantation for the rest of the year.
The people of this country, white and black, had a casual attitude to life. Combined with the legendary romance of the tropics and the dangers of cannibals and crocodiles, he could understand the appeal of such places for writers like Somerset Maugham. But the truth was that Port Moresby was no South Seas paradise. It had a sultry, arid, oft times lethal climate. This was a place with a violent history. But it did offer the chance to disappear from one’s previous life and start anew. New Guinea was a land of opportunity for hard men who were prepared to gamble and take risks.
Richie gazed across the harbour to the wreck of the Burns Philp steamer MV Macdhui, the trading vessel bombed by the Japanese during World War II. Lying in its grave, it was a visible reminder of how near the Japanese had come to invading northern Australia.
He looked around at the various boats moored in the harbour. Sailing, now that’s an idea that appeals, he thought. To take a boat around the islands of New Guinea and Melanesia. What an adventure that would be. For a moment he forgot the heat that was now rising over the century mark as morning moved to midday. I don’t know much about boating, he mused, but I could learn – maybe find a partner, hire a crew. That’s what I could do with my money from Voyage to Paradise. If I get another film acting job, bloody terrific. It would pay my way. If I don’t, I can hang out here for a couple of years, then sell up, cash in and move on. Perhaps Cressida and his father could come up and visit him. He could imagine his mother enjoying life amongst the natives.
Richie turned the jeep away from the harbour into Musgrave Road, the semi business district where the Burns Philp office was located. His dreams of sailing the South Seas began to expand in his mind. He saw himself living on a grand coconut plantation like Gunantambu, the home of the legendary ‘Queen’ Emma of the South Seas, the Samoan-American who had built a nineteenth-century trading empire.
Richie went into Burns Philp to meet his new mate, Frank. They’d been introduced at a party when the film crew had first arrived in the capital. Frank was an Australian with the giant trading conglomerate who seemed to know everything going on in Moresby and the remote islands.
‘Hey, Frank. I need a favour,’ Richie greeted him.
‘Well, have a cup of tea. How’s the movie business going? Can’t be easy when you blokes decide to film down in the gulf. That’s authenticity for you.’ Frank sent his secretary out to put the kettle on.
They caught up on the local news. ‘Now, what’s this favour? I’ll help if I can.’
Richie gave him a grin. ‘You’ve helped our production people a lot with your knowledge of who’s who around here. We really appreciate it. Your invitation to the premiere will be in the mail. Now, this time I need help. I’ve fallen in love.’
‘Oh, oh. That sounds like trouble.’ Frank raised an amused eyebrow.
