July 1943
Bordubi Ridge, New Guinea
The mud made the climb almost impossible but such was everyday life here where they pushed their human forms to do superhuman things. Heaving themselves forwards on legs of lead, carrying their packs on corded, aching shoulders. Sleeping with faces exposed to the pouring rain.
Sliding on his boot, Michael caught at a branch to steady himself, kicking off the greasy stuff and wondering if he would ever feel clean again. It was a brief wondering, like when he wondered if he would ever feel full again or if he would ever sleep a whole night without the shakes that came and went from what he guessed was malaria. Or if he would ever feel this war was over – assuming he survived.
Jake gave Michael a glance of understanding, not bothering with words. Dirt and perspiration streaked his face and Michael knew he was reflecting a similar visage. The forest was seeping mud into their every pore, and he was glad they’d said goodbye to Father Patrick several miles back, leaving him to tend the wounded; at least the priest was spared this part of their journey. The part when hell had truly arrived for the Elite.
Being attached to the militia and the commandos had seemed a logical choice when the decision was made, but weeks later it seemed a suicide mission, so hazardous was each and every aspect of this battle. The Japanese fired from invisible positions and the Allies fired back, neither willing to give way and hand the other side the strategic advantage this ridge would give the victor.
Take the ridge and we can take Salamaua. Reminding himself of the basic plan usually reassured Michael. But sometimes it didn’t work because sometimes they didn’t seem real any more, this invisible enemy. Sometimes he felt the jungle itself was trying to kill him as sniper bullets whizzed past from a screen of continuous green. And then he would feel strangely abandoned and wonder where the bird of paradise had gone.
He didn’t have time to further ponder things as they settled in for the scheduled artillery bombardment. Maybe today was the day they would dislodge those stubborn bastards from these hillsides.
The blasts commenced, shaking the ground and deafening them as they waited and watched to see what it would flush out. They didn’t have to wait long: soon Cliffy was signalling and they all dropped to a crouch as Michael made his way forwards. Cliffy pointed and Michael saw it too. Movement. Uniforms. The Japanese.
They raised their guns, glimpsing the activity on the opposing ridge as the enemy continued to absorb heavy bombing, when someone was flushed out who they certainly hadn’t expected. It was a native man and he was hurling himself down that ridge as fast as Michael had ever seen anyone take such a steep incline. And he was badly exposed.
Michael fired, giving the man cover, and the others did the same, but he had reached a rocky crevice and was stranded now, unable to move as machine guns peppered either side.
‘Bloody hell, move ’round,’ Michael called and they advanced, trying to take out the Japanese machine gunners.
The native man saw his chance and took off again, this time making it to a bushy copse but his sudden limp told Michael he was hit. And stranded once more.
‘Okello,’ said a strained voice alongside and Michael turned to see a desperate expression on Ovuru’s face.
The Japanese were still firing and Michael pelted bullets back, making a quick decision as Okello looked set to run again, despite his leg.
‘Take it,’ he told Ovuru, who he’d been teaching to shoot. ‘Cover me,’ he called, rushing forwards.
‘Shit, Mick,’ Jake yelled before firing rapidly with the others.
Michael ran, dodging and weaving. Trying to remember to be a snake in long grass. It felt like a million bullets were trying to find him as he launched himself the last few yards towards Okello, heaving the man up and dragging him back.
Pain. Impossible. Keep running.
‘Arrrgh!’ he heard Cliffy yell as he fired his Owen Gun at the enemy with precision.
Michael was straining against a distortion of forest, mud and rocks and it tore, tripped and scraped at him as the pelt of machine guns and artillery filled his ears. Almost there.
Then he was on his back on the track and hands were hauling him forwards and the noise seemed white as it deafened his senses.
Then he realised that, somehow, they had made it.
‘Okello,’ wept Ovuru, pulling his brother into his arms as Semu checked the bullet wound on his leg.
‘Ovuru,’ Okello mouthed, staring at him in shock. They exchanged a few shouted words before Okello pointed at Michael and said something else.
‘Sir,’ Ovuru yelled, wiping at his tears.
Okello took Michael’s hand and held it against his heaving chest.
‘Sir,’ he panted then nodded at him with wild eyes. Michael couldn’t hear the word above yet another blast but he could read the man’s lips as he said, ‘Wantok.’
The radio was scratchy, as per usual, but the news was good. After a ferocious, climactic battle, the Japanese had retreated towards Salamaua at last and, even though the Australians could never really relax with snipers still around, they were in good spirits. Especially after being told they didn’t have to advance – they were heading back to Port Moresby for a rest instead. Michael could already feel the warm, clean water from that long awaited shower and wondered if he would ever take such a thing for granted again. Looking at the numerous scratches on his legs and arms, it was just as well. This wasn’t a place to invite infections.
Okello was doing well and they would take him to the medics in the morning but not before he entertained them all, it seemed. Propped up against a rock and drinking a cup of tea, he was rather enjoying himself, relating his escapades in a mixture of very broken English, native language and drawings in the dirt.
It seemed Okello had given up being a spy a few weeks ago and had kept himself busy as an assassin instead. His prized stash of collar insignias was proof of how many lives he’d taken, each patch cut from his victim’s uniform and each with a story behind it.
‘There’s no private patches in here, though,’ Cliffy observed.
‘Nitōhei,’ Mayflower said, translating ‘private’ into Japanese.
Okello said something in his language and Semu explained.
‘Not important enough.’
‘Ha! I’ll remember that next time I save your arse from being mowed down by Jap fire!’
They all had a chuckle over that but Michael was a bit disturbed by the sinister collection that Okello was obviously rather proud of.
‘That’s a lot of killing,’ he said, pointing at the pile on the ground.
Okello looked him straight in the eye and found enough English to say, ‘Don’t deserve live.’
Ovuru put his hand protectively on his brother’s shoulder and Michael wondered at the depth of hatred he saw in their faces.
‘Japs kill girl…daughter,’ Semu explained quietly, nodding at Okello. ‘Destroy village.’
‘Don’t deserve live,’ Okello repeated, picking his collection back up and carefully putting it in his bag.
Michael couldn’t judge him. Perhaps if he had a daughter himself he’d feel the same way.
That night the dream came again, only this time the log bridge was slippery with mud, not blood, and he was falling into a pit of torn little patches that called out for mercy in Japanese. The flash of crimson came and he woke in a sweat but there was no saviour here, just the black of night and a cold steady rain on a track on those bloody ridges. Where anything beautiful seemed far, far way.