Chapter 4 Shakespeare inspects a Guard; Company Patrol; KIA; Crow's Prisoner

COMPANY PATROL

THE turbid waters of the Jaba River run swiftly down to the wide curve of Empress Augusta Bay on the west coast of Bougainville. The coastal flats which it traverses in its final stages are thickly covered with trees and secondary growth, criss-crossed with small streams and native pads, and dotted with swamps. It is Jap country-or it was when this was written in the first week of 1945

1 was one of a company of Australian infantrymen who left their firm base on the south bank of the Jaba, and went looking for trouble farther south. There was plenty of trouble there, and no one had ever been forced to look very hard.

One of our patrols had killed a Jap near Log Crossing the day before, and had sighted more in the area -far too many for their strength. Our job was to get past Log Crossing -which was a log lying as a bridge across a little stream-and lie doggo while the artillery shelled the track ahead to start the Japs on the move. As soon as the artillery stopped we were to hop in and get among them.

The track wound endlessly, and for the greater part pointlessly, through the thick jungle. The sweat soaked through our clothes, and my rifle sling began to rub a skin rash on my right shoulder. It was the prickly-heat rash that everyone gets after a while. The pace was slow.

Most people who haven't been out on a patrol seem to think that you walk quickly along, or else creep for-ward inch by inch with rifle cocked, and darting glances to right and left. They do it in the pictures, I know; but they don't fire real bullets at each other in the pictures.

When you're on patrol you walk along fairly slowly, because you can't walk quickly and not make a noise. Out in front you have a couple of scouts -the point scouts- and they dart glances to right and left. They go ahead in leaps, and when they move without being shot at or seeing the enemy, the rest of the column moves up too, and then waits for scouts to move ahead.

Of course, you don't just squat down and admire the ferns or the brilliant butterflies.

You keep a keen eye well peeled, because all the best ambushes wait until the greatest number is in the trap before it is sprung. And this country we were in was just made for ambushes. Nice little clearings, clumps of bamboo in which you couldn't help making a noise, and creek crossings, all made to order.

I was squatting behind the trunk of a banana palm when the man behind me crept up and whispered, "Nobby wants to know if you've seen any movement on the right." Nobby was the corporal bringing up the rear.

"Yes," I whispered back. "There's a patrol from 'B' Company out there somewhere. It's probably them, but you'd better watch out just in case."

The word was relayed back along the line, just as it had been sent up, from mouth to mouth.

The man in front was on the move again. Along the track ran the red line of the signal cable. Up ahead with the company commander the signallers: were paying out the cable to keep us in telephone communication with battalion headquarters. Some silly ass had forgotten to grease the drum, and it was squeaking on its axle loudly enough to wake the dead.

We began to hear the feathered whistling of shells overhead-our shells. They were crashing into the jungle far ahead. There was a slight tingling in my veins. The game had opened.

After we had been going for about two hours, there was a long burst of fire in front and to the left; and then scattered rifle-shots. Shortly after the man in front stopped, and waited for me to come up.

"Pass the word back they're expecting trouble up front," he said.

We walked for another hour, but nothing happened. I don't know even now what the shots were all about. Probably a patrol from some other unit shooting up a few Nips.

The man in front had halted again. We were in a light bamboo thicket. I knelt on the side of the track looking inwards. The sun slanted down through the bamboo tufts, motionless in the breathless air, to split into the colours: of the spectrum on a spider's web.

The measured beat of a Juki heavy machine gun came from up front. Our line moved forward again, and the word came back: "Trouble ahead. Absolutely no noise from now on." We edged forward now, more carefully than before, but still the unwary feet broke small branches and that damned signal reel screeched. A fish-stinking hornbill broke away from the branches above us, and added its raucous squawks. Still nothing happened.

We went to ground again for another of those interminable halts. When would we get to our objective? The shells were whistling overhead again, and their crashing explosions were nearer. But still there was no contact with the enemy. I unhitched my water-bottle, and tugged at the cork. It came out with a loud pop that seemed to echo from every tree. Someone close behind me said, "It sounded like a champagne cork."

And a man farther back shouted in a stage whisper, "Yes, and I bet the Jap who heard it thought he was back in the Hotel Tokyo."

Three and a half hours out, and we were passing through some old Jap positions. They still stank of the filthy animals. It's a stench you can't describe because it is like no other. The Europeans in the native battalions say that the boys can smell the Japs long before they see them. I believe it.

We didn't poke about there. It was on the bank of a small creek, and a lovely site for an ambush. There would probably be plenty of booby-traps too.

Another half-hour and the longest halt of all set in. It was midday, so we must have been just about at Log Crossing. The artillery had stopped, as if to gather itself for the main effort; and the word came back: "One section at a time over the crossing." We were there at last.

Soon we moved forward again, through a clump of bamboos which had been cut and broken down by the Japs to make a path, and on to the log. It was only a small log, and it was slippery with mud after the passage of many feet. Below it the yellow water of the creek rushed along in its hurry to join the Jaba.

On the other side stood the company commander, detailing the positions we had to take up. He had formed a perimeter with our backs to the creek.

Just outside our positions the track forked. One pad, well-worn, led to the south-east. The other branched westward towards the coast.

The signallers had wired up their field telephone, and the company commander was talking to the C.O. back at headquarters, giving our position on the map and setting times for the artillery shoot.

He detailed his plan to me as we sat in a little hollow between two banyan trees. The artillery was to lay down fire on the track to the south-east, and as soon as it lifted one platoon would go forward to kill any Japs who might be moving about. In the communiqués they say "mop up", but it means the same. After that, another platoon would move out of the perimeter and try to force its way along the track branching out westward. They would lay signal cable and keep in touch by field telephone. If the track did lead through to the coast, the rest of the company would follow and 'Join up with another battalion, which had landed from barges the day before. Both platoons had a solid defensive position at their backs if they got into too much trouble.

The lieutenant in command of the first platoon was briefed, and then called his men together "to paint the picture", as the C.O. used to say at every lecture in our training days.

We had an artillery officer with us. The official name is "Forward Observation Officer", but he didn't look that dignified as he took off his boots and socks and started to climb a tree. From that vantage-point he began to call out his orders, most of it gibberish to our infantry cars, but the man below him took it seriously; and so did the signaller who relayed it back to the battery some three miles in the rear.

It sounded like this:

F.O.O.: "Four one degrees; five seven hundred."

Sig: "Four one degrees; five seven hundred."

A short pause, and then: "Shot one, sir."

Almost on top of the sig's last syllable came the boom of a gun muffled by distance, the whistle of a shell, a moment of pregnant silence, and then the crashing burst.

And then the dialogue started again, with slight variations, such as: "Shorten fuse point four; five five hundred." On that order the shell fell too close for absolute comfort, and the artillery officer slid down the tree with a grin on his face.

"Right on target now," he reported to the company commander. "Shall we let 'em have it?" His ranging was finished, and back behind us the gunners were waiting the signal to lay them down thick and heavy.

Another telephone conversation with the C.O., and everything was co-ordinated. The artillery officer picked up his phone, and the shells began to plaster the area about a hundred yards ahead of us. The detonations had scarcely died away when the platoon was out of the perimeter. We lay there waiting for the sharp, vicious bursts of Owen guns, but nothing happened. A sharp look-out was kept on the right flank and on the creek bank at our rear in case the Japs had moved around us.

It was an anti-climax. The platoon came back disconsolate. The Japs had fled. A sergeant came over to our little command post and handed in two steel identity discs. He had taken them from the body of a native police-boy who had been killed the day before. A dead Jap was lying beside him; and that was all they found.

A sudden rain began to fall, darkening the already dark jungle. The second platoon began to move out on its task of reaching the coast, and the first moved into positions on the perimeter defence line. It was the old familiar pattern. The point scouts, the sections, and the eternal plodding signaller paying out his cable.

We watched them go, and thought of having a swim when we reached the coast. It was a happy thought which came to nothing. The last man had hardly passed from sight when there came a sharp burst of fire from a light machine gun. Was it a Bren or a Jap? You can't be sure at first; and then the Owens began to speak. The company commander had his ear glued to the telephone.

Soon he began to speak: "Yes, Paul. I can hear you. Right, right, stay put and I'll bring some artillery down for you."

The artillery officer is speaking to his battery, calling for ranging shots again. The first one whizzes over.

"How was that, Paul?" It is the company commander again. "Too far to the left?"

Another shell; right in front this time, but too far away. The range is decreased and the third shell is right in the target area.

While single shells hurtle in spasmodically, the platoon withdraws inside the perimeter. They are going to plaster the area with forty rounds of gunfire, and then go in for the kill. The lieutenant comes over to the command post and tells his story. The first burst we heard had caught the point scout as he stepped around a bend in the track. A Jap pillbox was only a few feet around the corner.

We hugged the ground as the barrage began. The detonations shook the ground, and two or three tree-bursts sprayed shrapnel among us. No one was hit by the burning hot metal, but two were struck by falling branches. The acrid smell of cordite stung our nostrils as the blue-grey smoke spread through the jungle. The platoon was through our outer line in a split second to take the pillbox on the left flank. It was patently suicide to attempt to storm it along the track. Moving in they poured round after round into it from Bren and Owen guns, and then began to throw grenades. It was a miniature war, but no less bitter on account of size. One man has only one life to give.

The Japs were snarling back. There were more in the pillbox than we had thought, and our men had to accept the bitter pill and move back.

It was growing late, and we had to be back inside our battalion defence lines before dark. One section had been left on the other side of the creek to stop the Japs from establishing an ambush at Log Crossing. Section by section we went back. The rain sloshed heavily down on us, and we were not very pleased with life.

Back along the track we went. The same track, the same mud, the same alertness for ambush; the dreadful sameness and dreariness of the infantry. The company commander cut into the signal line and spoke to the C.O. A few minutes later we heard the artillery rolling in the distance, ahead of us now, the screaming whistle of the shells above us, and the explosions behind. They were laying down a barrage to cover our withdrawal.

It was nearly nightfall when we got through our lines. They had left the path open for us; and for the last two or three hundred yards there were men squatting in the bushes waiting to set the booby-traps after we had passed. We were back; back to a heartening meal of tinned meat and vegetable, and a mug of hot tea.

We expected that the enemy would follow up our sortie with an attack that night. He had had minor attempts a few nights before, but he let us alone this time. It was a relief to have only the usual tour of sentry duty, for we were all pretty tired.

But it wasn't the last the Jap heard from us. At four the next morning we were groping through our wire and down the now familiar track. We reached Log Crossing about eight, and let him have it without benefit of artillery. The whole company kept moving this time, and pushed on towards the coast.

"SX2663"

KILLED IN ACTION

Extract from author's covering letter: "Although this story may appear to he nothing more than an imaginative piece of work it is based on the experience of a friend of mine in 2/10 Aust. Inf. Bn. He told me the story and swears to its authenticity. The locale was Buna strip, December,1942.

I SAW the clear patch off from the side of the track and started to drag him in there. It was raining and the wetness made my clothes stick to me and the rain mixed with the blood from my thigh and spread ugly darkness over the leg of my trousers.

Mac was hurt bad and I could see the blood gushing from his neck like one of those bubblers I used to drink out of in the park near home. His whole shirt-front was blood and I was dragging him along.

He didn't say a word. He hadn't spoken all the time I was dragging him, but I could see it was tearing him up inside. We were both hit with the same burst. Mac got it in the neck and I got it in the thigh.

All the time I'd been dragging him the mud was building up around his neck. Getting in his ears, his mouth, and covering up the bullet-hole until the blood washed it away and went it back to mix with the mud of the Track.

I couldn't move very fast because I could only slide on one leg, then pull myself along and drag Mac with me. It must have taken us two hours to travel a hundred yards, but Mac never said a word. He just bit his lip every time I heaved him and spoke to me with his eyes when I looked around.

In the clearing it was quiet. The rain dripped on to my hat brim, but it was quiet. I thought I would lie down and have a sleep for a while. I was very tired. But the thought no sooner came than it was gone because Mac was lying beside me breathing through the side of his neck with his life running out through the same hole.

I ripped the tail from his shirt and wiped the mud from his wound. I packed a piece of cloth over it and tied it as tight as I could. I did what I thought was right. Maybe it could have killed him. I wouldn't know. I just did it because I wanted to stop the bubbler.

He looked at me and said, "Thanks, Allan," and his voice seemed to come from a long way away.

"Forget it," I told him. "I'd do the same for a boong if he was in trouble."

He almost smiled then, but he couldn't quite make it. When his lips parted a little and he shot a sidelong glance at me I took it for a smile. That one about the boong was an old gag of ours.

So I sat there and got angry. I got so mad that I started to spit at the green jungle because there was nothing else I could do that would show how angry I was.

Here he was lying on his back with three parts of his life kicked out of him and who would worry? Maybe his wife would worry, and maybe his little kid who was not born yet would worry, but they'd worry anyway whether he was half dead or not. It made me mad. He should have been home doing his baker's run. It must be about four o'clock and he should be just finished and deharnessing the horse. Or unharnessing it. Whatever it is they do with horses to get them out of a cart.

"Hey, Mac, what do you do with the horse to get it out of the baker's cart?

But he did not answer. He just looked at me and didn't say a word. I was glad he didn't because it was a silly thing to ask.

I pulled up my trouser leg and looked at my thigh. It all seemed blue around the hole, but that might have been blood-stain or something. It looked nasty, but it didn't pain me much. It felt like a toothache does. I used to get toothache a lot when I was a kid, but when I Joined the army a dentist gave me a whole new lot and they've been right ever since.

I rolled my trouser leg down and leaned back against the base of a sago tree. "Well, well, well," I said.

Then I heard Mac talking to me softly. He said, "You going to stop here or try and get back? "

"I'm stopping," I told him. "We'll wait here until the bearers come."

And again he gave me that attempted smile. He knew as well as I did what chance there was of the bearers finding us.

"I'll go back and bring a stretcher-bearer through," Mac said.

That sounded funny so I told him, "Yeah. You race back and bring up the whole battalion."

His face didn't change, but I could see that he was hurt about me joking at him so I said, "We'll be right, kid. They'll come through here sooner or later."

And he didn't say a word, so I started to talk about anything that came into my head, trying to cheer him up.

"Be no time before we are out of here and back between sheets." I was talking to myself more than Mac. I knew he was dying and because of that I was trying to kick my own morale up a bit.

"Just think of it," I said. "White pillows and hot food and plenty of sleep. No more slugging through this mess. Visitors coming every Sunday bringing cream cakes. I love cream cakes, especially if they got a lot of cream. You listening, Mac?"

"Yeah," he said, and he looked very contented and unworried. He was lying there with his head turned to the side and his hands lying flat, palms down on the mud. His eyes were open and he looked dreamy and happy as if he was home playing with this kid he was going to have.

It started to get dark. The greenness slowly left the jungle and the blackness settled down for the night. I could hear the sound of one of our Brens somewhere, then a grenade and more Bren.

"You all right, Mac?" I said.

And there was no answer. I slid across the around to him and looked down at his face. "You all right, kid?" I asked him.

He said, "Uh-huh. I'm going to get a stretcher-bearer soon to take you in."

"That's all right, kid," I told him. "Don't you worry about me." And I got mad again because here was my little mate lying on his back dying and he was thinking of me. And I couldn't do a damn thing to help him.

It was nearly dark now and at home everybody would be having tea and getting ready for the pictures or a dance or something. There were no lights in the city and it make it nice to walk along the street with your girl at night. You could put your arm around her and nobody knew if it was you and her or the bloke and his wife from next door to the butcher's. I liked the dark streets, but I didn't like the dark jungle. And I didn't like the idea of little Mac lying there dying and all the people having tea and going along the dark streets with their girls to the pictures. It made me mad.

"Allan," he said, and this time I could hardly hear him. I leaned over and patted him on the arm and told him not to try and talk, but he said, "I'm going back for the bearers now. I'll bring them back for you."

And I started gabbling, saying things I didn't mean. Things that had no sense in them because I wanted to sit down and howl like a little kid. I knew he was dead before I looked closely at his face. I could sort of feel him leave the cleared patch and die. His face was just the same, his mouth closed, his eyes open, unworried but no longer dreamy. They seemed alive and vital, but I knew he was dead.
I didn't get mad then.

I didn't get anything, not even sad, because I couldn't realize that he was really dead. It didn't seem possible that only a couple of hours ago he was talking and walking and shooting as good as the next man and now he was not part of anything any more. I couldn't seem to understand that I'd never talk with him again. I thought he'd just gone away for a while and after a time it
would all come right and we would be just as close in our friendship as ever.

I must have been lying there thinking these things and gone to sleep. But I had lost a lot of blood and I may have fainted. I wouldn't know. When next I opened my eyes the blackness hung about me like something solid. It seemed to cut itself up into squares and into circles and move around and shiver, then all fit back together again and hang in the air and say, "bet you a quid you can't see through me."

Then I heard the noise and I sat up and my stomach seemed to flop about inside me. Then again I heard it and it was feet sloshing on the track. I listened and I could hear voices and I wished I had a gun. Not even a pistol and they were coming straight for the clearing.

I could hear the voices, but could not make out the language. I thought it must be Japanese because I knew I was much closer to their lines than I was to our own perimeter. So I sat and waited with my insides flickering and angry because I had no gun.

Then I heard a voice say, "Inside here. This looks like it," and my stomach flopped back into place and tears ran down my cheeks. I was howling like a kid.

The padre came in first and he said softly "Are you here? Is there anybody here?"

And I said "Yes We're here "

The padre spoke to somebody behind him. "Nice job." he said. "It was a work of art finding this place in pitch blackness," and the stretcher-bearers lifted me and laid me on their stretcher.

I said. "There's another bloke. Little Mac. He's dead."

The padre knelt over Mac and shone his torch in his face. Then he stood up and I could hear him breathing in the darkness.

He said to me, "Do you ever pray?" And I told him, "In my own way I been praying all night."

"How long's he been dead?" he asked me And I told him, "A couple of hours."

He said, "It was Mac who got the bearers, and led the way in here "

And I said, "I know" and he wondered why I wasn't surprised

"NX73132"