SOMEDAY SOON (25 page)

Joe couldn't suppress a guarded smile at the
sergeant's immodest logic. Every word that he spoke was delivered
with a manic intensity, as if the world might come to an end at any
moment. As his fervor grew, his stride quickened accordingly, so
much so that Joe was forced to break into a trot to keep up with
him and hear everything he said.

'I've lived in Western Australian and the
Northern Territory most of my life, you know,' Herbert continued.
'I've been a laborer, prospector, pharmacist, sailor, trade union
official, superintendent of Aborigines, even a journalist, in
London of all places. I came home soon, though. Can't stand the
Poms. Can you Brodie?'

'Oh, I don't know.' Joe smiled to himself
again. 'Most Australians are from British stock...'

'That's why I can't stand Australians much
either. It's the country I love, not the people that are exploiting
it. Personally, I much prefer the blackfella. Unfortunately he's
not able to defend his own land. So we must save him and Australia
from the bloody Japs as well as everybody else. It's our duty. Can
you ride a horse, Corporal?'

'Never been on one until Ingleburn.'

Sergeant Herbert smiled fleetingly.
'Doesn't really matter. Any fool can learn to ride an animal. Fall
off enough times and hurt yourself and you learn pretty quick how
to stay on. Different with a man's mind, though
.
His
thinking can be all wrong, but he never feels pain and anguish,
he'll never change his outlook and never be in tune with the land
or it's native people. Only those who have lived here for a long
time can even hope to understand that, and most of them never do.
But as far as knowing horses, I've assigned Smokey Peters to your
section. He's the best farrier in the Nackeroos. He came from a
cattle station in the Kimberley. Anything he doesn't know about
horses isn't worth knowing.'

'How many men will be in the section?'
Sergeant?'

'Five. You, Smokey, Snow the old Aboriginal
guide, and two other men. Learn as much as you can from old Snow
during the time he's with you. You'd know better than most that
you'll never starve if you've got a blackfella along. He can show
your men a lot about how to survive in the bush and show them how
to build bark huts too. The plan is for Eagle's Nest to be
provisioned by sea from time to time. But we don't have enough
boats and they're all very small. If your supply boat breaks down
or runs into bad weather you could run short of food and
essentials. Now, as for the other two men, is there anyone in
particular that you want in your section?'

'Just Private Wilkins, a bloke I met at
Ingleburn. I think he'll be reliable.'

'All right, I'll see to that. And I'll try
and round up another bloke that will be able to keep his end
up.'

They arrived at a metal machinery shed which
served as the company's stores and Joe followed Herbert inside. The
sergeant took a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and gave it to
a soldier behind the counter. 'This is a list of requirements for
the post at Eagle's Nest.' Herbert eyed the soldier sternly. 'Set
everything aside and mark it clearly. Corporal Brodie and his men
will be here first thing tomorrow morning to pick it up. And make
sure everything is in good working order. There'll be hell to pay
if it isn't up to scratch.'

From stores they walked briskly to a large
shed at the edge of the horse paddock. Inside a couple of farriers
were shoeing horses beside a blacksmith's hearth. Two more men were
cleaning and polishing riding gear with saddle-soap and vinegar.
Herbert walked up to one of the men shoeing horses and said, '
Smokey, this is Corporal Brodie.'

Smokey Peters was a short, wiry man with
close-cropped black hair soaked with sweat. he put down a
blacksmith's hammer and a pair of iron tongs, wiped a hand on his
apron and reached for Joe's.

'How did you go with the horses, Smokey?'
Herbert asked.

Smokey pushed open a door that led out into
the paddock and Herbert and Joe followed him outside.

'There they are.' Smokey pointed to a row of
horses tied to a rail under a tree. 'I picked out sixteen of the
best I could find. Some of them are passable but some are nothing
more than old brumbies, hardly worth shoeing.'

'How's that then?' Joe asked

Smokey shook his head. 'The Army needed
hundreds of horses in a hurry and money was no object. They bought
them from stations all over the Top End. Trouble is, a lot of
people saw it as a chance to get rid of a lot of lazy, obstinate
no-hopers. A station owner would say he could spare maybe a dozen
horses but we couldn't pick which ones. So he'd put a dozen
together and say we could either take the whole bunch or none of
them.'

'That's what I meant before about people,
Brodie,' Sergeant Herbert said grimly. They're all bastards. The
Japs are knocking on the door and all they can think about is
making a quick quid.' He strode angrily towards the horses. 'When
will this lot be ready, Smokey?'

'By sundown at the latest.'

'Good, the captain wants the Eagles Nest
section to leave first thing tomorrow morning.' Herbert turned to
Joe. 'Right, now let's go and round up the rest of your bunch.'

*

Two hours after dawn the next morning,
Eagle's Nest section, with five riders and eleven packhorses,
prepared to leave Roper Bar under a threatening, overcast sky. Joe
had checked and rechecked the section's provisions, weapons and
ammunition, and the cumbersome radio and ancillary gear. Now
everything was packed and slung over the packhorse's backs in
saddlebags and rope webbing cradles that Smokey Peters had made
especially for the purpose.

Smokey and Snow, the old Aboriginal tracker,
plainly named for his thick mop of grey hair, and a strapping
eighteen-year-old ex-jackeroo named Tasker, all sat in the saddle.
Joe and the Weasel tried to look comfortable. But the look of
terror on Weasel's face when his horse snorted and jerked its head
gave him away.

A few moments before they rode out, Sergeant
Herbert appeared and wished them all well. As he turned to leave,
Joe said,' Sergeant, last night I was thinking over what you said
about Aborigines not being able to fight for their own land. I know
a lot of them that would give their eye-teeth to help us if we let
them. I was told after I lost my boat that one of my Aboriginal
crewmen finished up in a control camp at Phelp River, just north of
here. If the Nackeroos are ever looking for more guides or trackers
he'd be a bloody good bloke to take on. His name is Monday; he's
from Croker Island.'

'Okay, Corporal,' Herbert said, 'I'll make
enquiries about him, next time I'm up that way.'

'Thanks, Sarge, and there one more thing. My
offsider on the boat, was a Japanese/Australian. He was wounded by
an Army patrol from Phelp River. Silly bastards thought he was a
Jap soldier or a spy. If you're at the camp perhaps you could find
out what happened to him.'

'He'll be in an internment camp by now, I
suppose. Civil liberties are one of the first casualties of war.'
Herbert turned to leave. 'Well you'd better be shoving off. Take
good care of yourself and your section.' He looked up into the
patchy grey sky. 'And you'd better hope the wet doesn't come
early.'

*

It took nine days for Joe's section to reach
the mouth of Rosie Creek. In places, the country they had to cross
was so rough the riders had to dismount and lead their horses for
miles on end over high, sharp, rocky ridges and along deep,
dried-out creek beds. Some of the older packhorses tired quickly
and became plain obstinate; others resented their heavy loads and
desperately tried to shake them off by rubbing against trees. Two
troublesome horses carrying guns and ammunition bolted and it took
best part of a day to track them down. Without Smokey Peter's
patience with the animals and Snow's dogged perseverance in finding
paths through the difficult terrain and water for the horses, Joe
doubted they would have made it at all.

As soon as they arrived, Joe knew that
whoever had named the location Eagle's Nest had never seen the low
mangrove swamps and the endless mosquito-infested mudflats at the
mouth of Rosie Creek. But there was one small, well-treed knoll
about twenty feet above the high-water mark, a mile or so north of
the entrance. It was there the Nackeroos set about establishing the
observation post. About a quarter of a mile away, Snow found plenty
of fresh water in the mud pan's shallow holes.

Within hours Joe had established radio
communications with headquarters and the Top End pedal-radio
network and the men had set up a lean-to which would serve as a
kitchen. Over the next few days they built three bark huts, one as
a communication shed housing the radio gear, one as a dormitory,
and the third to house their supplies. The huts kept out the
weather but not the insects and everyone set up personal mosquito
nets; it was impossible to sleep without them. Only old Snow wasn't
troubled by mosquitoes and he always slept outside under the
stars.

Weasel and Private Tasker got the fright of
their lives one day when they risked swimming in Rosie Creek
despite several sightings of saltwater crocodiles in the area. It
was late afternoon and the water felt cool and soothing after a
long, hot day. They were still in the water at dusk when they were
startled by a group of soldiers which emerged from the bush beside
the river with rifles at the ready. The light was too poor to see
if they were friend or foe. Terrified the soldiers might be
Japanese, Weasel and Tasker submerged quickly and made for their
guns they'd left lying on the far riverbank. When their lungs were
bursting they surfaced, to find the soldiers on the other bank
laughing their heads off. Someone shouted across the water that
they were Nackeroos from Borroloola, come to pick up the surplus
packhorses.

The visitors stayed two nights and their
company temporarily alleviated the boredom that was already setting
in at Rosie Creek. A few days after they left, there was a little
more excitement when a reconnaissance aircraft flew low over the
post several times. The plane made a final pass and everyone was
about to run out from the cover of the trees and wave when at the
last moment they were horrified to see Japanese marking on the
wings. After that the Nackeroos made more of an effort to
camouflage Eagle's Nest.

But they saw no more planes in the days that
followed and the only thing that brought relief from the daily
boredom was trying to tune their radio to Radio Australia, the BBC
overseas service, even the propaganda of Tokyo Rose, beamed
directly from Japan. Sometimes the reception was particularly clear
at night and they often picked up interesting news on the BBC about
what was happening in Europe and the Middle East.

Any illusions they had about Eagle's Nest
going undetected by the Japanese reconnaissance plane vanished one
night when they were listening to Tokyo Rose in the radio hut. In
the middle of her usual diatribe about the uselessness of Allied
soldiers trying to defend Australia against the Emperor's superiors
forces, she suddenly extended a very special welcome to the
soldiers manning the Australian Army observation post at the mouth
of Rosie Creek in the Northern Territory.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

Dan was surprised to find some old
acquaintances at Port Moresby. Several of the men in the squadron
he was assigned to had served in the US Far East Air Force before
it had been destroyed on the ground in the Philippines. Like
himself, they were the scattered remnants of squadrons decimated in
the early stages of the Pacific War, men who had been posted as
individuals rather than a part of a unit to wherever pilots were
needed the most. Dan was grateful for the company of the veteran
flyers, and the camaraderie he shared with them eased the
disappointment he felt at not returning to Queensland from Milne
Bay.

Many of the Clark Field veterans had started
flying B-17s on bombing raids over Rabaul as soon as they had
arrived. Others had flown attacks on Japanese bombers raiding Port
Moresby. Now, like all the Allied squadrons in Papua, their main
tasks were attacking shipping in the Solomon Sea bringing
reinforcements and supplies to the Japanese troops on the Kokoda
Track and keeping up the ‘biscuit bomber’ drops to Australian
soldiers who were trying to hold them back. The main role of the
fighter squadron Dan was attached to was intercepting enemy raiders
over the Seven Mile Drome. Heavy losses were commonplace at Port
Moresby and everyone lived one day at a time. By late September the
situation on the ground and in the air just seemed to be getting
even worse.

The Australians were taking a beating on the
Kokoda Track. After a long and grueling march over the worst part
of the track the first AIF reinforcements to reach Isurava found
the Japanese had launched a major offensive on the Australian
Militia forces that very day. Hopelessly outnumbered, the AIF and
the Militia fought side by side against vastly superior firepower
and at least deprived the enemy of a quick victory. In the face of
overwhelming odds, the diggers took, and inflicted, heavy
casualties for four long bloody days before being forced to
withdraw.

After the loss of Isurava, the Australians
were forced to retreat, dig-in, then retreat and dig-in, again and
again as, village by village, the Japanese troops pushed them back
down the Kokoda Track. Eventually, with native carriers struggling
to transport their mounting numbers of sick and wounded, they were
forced back to Imita Ridge, just twenty miles from the outskirts of
Port Moresby itself.

Dan saw at first hand the hideous aftermath
of the withdrawal from Kokoda. The gaunt, vacant faces of young
Australians, their broken bodies lying on blood-soaked stretchers,
the dispirited and ragged walking wounded, and the pitifully sick,
lurching and staggering from chronic malaria. Few had any relief
from their pain and suffering because vital air drops of morphine
and other medical supplies often fell into the hands of the
Japanese, as the enemy overran positions which had been held by
Australians only hours, or even minutes before the biscuit bomber
drops.