Published: 6 Feb 2023

Chapter 10

Landing at the Moresby field was rough as it had been bombed many times and the patching somewhat rudimentary, having the notion why bother further, as it will only be bombed again. In the distance a number of buildings were still sending smoke into the dark night vault, while off to one side and newly arrived in the South Pacific were two badly damaged P-51’s that were caught on the ground during that day’s raid.

Hank Wilson taxied the craft to stop in front of what appeared to be a warehouse, where a group of military personnel waited. With them were a number of natives hired to do the heavy lifting.

Once the Dakota’s doors opened the unloading commenced, Chip went to report to the field’s commander. Before doing so he advised Owen to remain out of sight in the aircraft, “there shouldn’t be a problem with you here but there isn’t any sense giving the brass more concern than necessary and I’ll square it up with the Colonel.”

Once briefed Chip returned to his crew and by his expression wasn’t all that pleased with what he had been advised.

“What’s the go?” Hank Wilson questioned as they gathered around.

“We’re stranded here for at least another day, possibly two.”

“Why so?” Wilson asks.

“The wounded we are to take back to Mareeba haven’t arrived, that storm we avoided on the way over, dumped seven inches of rain on the track and nothing is moving.”

“It won’t help the Japs either,” Arty infers.

“True and I’m told they are almost at the top of the Owen Stanley’s, although the Aussies have stalled them with heavy casualties on both sides.

“That would be only fifty miles from here,” Wilson calculates.

“Yes but it is fifty miles of high mountains and almost impenetrable jungle.” Chip pauses and looks about, “Righto sleeping arrangements, we’ll leave the doors open for air and there is bedding stored at the back, come on Owen you can give a hand.”

“Will it be safe sleeping in the plane?” Owen asks.

“As anywhere but come morning and if you hear a siren, get the fuck out and find a hole to shelter in.”

Soon the crew found their spots with the only place left for Owen being close by Chip, he quickly bedded down as late night banter commenced. In the most it was talk of home, of girls they knew, of missed opportunities and girls they wished for. Those in most were stars of the silver screen and notorious for showing a little more flesh than the average girl on the street. Being a hot night with such conversation and none of the crew far past their twentieth year, the effects became obvious.

“Quit the chatter, you’re making me horny,” Hank Wilson growled.

“Then deal with it Hank but keep quiet,” Arty suggested.

“Not likely,” Wilson answers with a rebuking growl.

Eventually all is quiet.

A light snoring comes from two across from Owen.

It stopped as Brennan rolls onto his side.

A slight cough followed by the hypnotic breathing of sleep.

Owen was nodding away. Light rain is falling, its sound upon the craft’s fuselage is rhythmic and a gentle breeze brought the sweet scent of frangipani flowers through the open door. He perceives what appeared to be a sigh for Chip in the form of a long and calculated breath.

Movement;

Skin on skin as Chip’s hand crosses the short distance between them.

The hand rests on Owen’s thigh an inch below his shorts but advances no further.

He feels his own reaction, a snaking of his member as it understands intention.

On progress his member escapes the thin layer of clothing and touches the tip of Chip’s fingers.

Owen holds his breath.

How should he react?

Should he simply roll away as if nothing had happened?

Wasn’t this what he had wished for since that first night Chip came for dinner?

Owen simply places his hand over Chip’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Hardly noticeable but he goes no further.

Their hands remained calmly embraced as a furnace burns in Owens belly. The heat lessens replaced by a feeling of comfort.

He is asleep.

Early morning and as the hot tropical sun rises out of the Coral Sea it is greeted with the whining of a siren, bringing Owen and the crew of Flight-136 into panic.

“Air raid!” the voice came across the short distance from the storage sheds to the open door of the Dakota. Without time to dress they evacuate in their underwear towards a trench designed for such purposes, as a number of Japanese aircraft arrive from the north at almost tree level, their engines screaming as the swooped down to loosen their deadly loads.

“They’re early,” Wilson growls, he pushes past one of the ground crew on entry into the slit-trench. He skins his bare knees on entry and swears loudly.

“They like to catch us napping,” came the call from further along the trench, “it is only the third raid this month. I guess in retaliation of us bombing the shit outa’ them at Madang last week.” As the man spoke a number of fighters lifted into the morning to intercept but before they could make contact the three enemy aircraft managed to drop their loads missing almost everything, then as quickly they headed north with the fighters in pursuit.

Owen lifts from the trench, his entire body trembling.

“Scared?” Wilson laughed.

“I could lie to you,” Owen says as he commences towards calm.

“You never get used it, I was at Pearl Harbour when they bombed the shit out of the town and still, even with that poor example we just witnessed, I shake,” Chip recalls as he brushes the dirt and twigs from his arms and underwear.

With the all clear sounding they come from their trench to stand silently gazing into the northern sky.

“Will they return?” Owen asks.

“Not today lad,” a man from the trench happily replied, as others across the field came from shelter.

“They missed everything,” Owen says.

“Not everything,” the man from the trench contradicts, pointing towards a P-40 Warhawk that was in for maintenance. The aircraft had received a direct hit becoming a jumble of smoking metal. Moments later the destroyed aircraft burst into flames bringing a fire truck at haste.

“Come on get dressed, we must look a sight,” Chip laughed away the experience of the morning.

“Breakfast time,” Wilson rubs his grumbling belly.

“I hear yesterday’s attack hit the mess hut, but the cook’s set up in the hanger near the main office.”

“What should I do?” Owen asks.

“Pull on the overalls and follow us, don’t make conversation unless spoken to,” Chip suggests.

“And if anyone asks, tell them you are a Fed Agent. That should quieten any interest,” Art says.

“Yea a baby-face junior Fed in grubby overalls, that should work,” Hank laughs.

During the late morning and still waiting for the injured Australian servicemen to arrive from Kokoda, Chip managed to borrow a jeep and takes Owen sightseeing. Firstly it was to the north of Moresby where a native Sing-sing was in progress and a number of the lowland tribes had congregated for their annual Tok-Pisin.

From all about the men had gathered in their finery. Grass skirts cover their often nakedness, their chest bearing the breast decoration of each individual tribe, while on their heads the plumage of a multitude of birds, the most prized was that of the bird of paradise, its closest relation being the common crow. Often the entire bird’s feathered skin would be splayed across the headdress. Many men wore ornaments’ through their nose, sometimes bone but these days and under Australian law they rarely use human bones; some were boar tusks or carved shell.

Owen and Chip arrived in time to view a mock battle, two rows of highly decorated men faced off and then moved towards and away like waves on a shore, while pretending to shoot their arrows or wound with spears. Others along the lines of men beat the Kundu in tune with their singing, it being a hollow wooden drum, opened at one end with skin of the possum or lizard stretched across the opposing end. It was said some of the more remote tribes still used the skin of their enemies for such purposes.

As they danced their singing ebbed and flowed like the waves on a sandy shore while off to the side women gave high pitched sounds to encourage the men’s enthusiasm.

“What do you think of that?” Chip asks as they depart from the spectacle.

“It certainly has more colour and life that the Australian corroboree.”

“Agreed and even more so then the Indians back home.”

As they travelled through that part of Port Moresby more akin to native inhabitance they came upon a field of mown grass where a game of sorts was in progress.

“Pull over and let’s have a look at what they are up to,” Owen suggests.

Chip pulls to the side of the road, “what do you think they are playing?”

“That’s a good question. It appears to be cricket,” Owen suggests while somewhat puzzled by the antics of the sportsmen.

“I have only seen your game of cricket on newsreels but what they appear to be playing is nothing like that and most defiantly nothing like baseball.”

“Rounders.” Owen says.

“What is rounders?”

“It is what we often played at school and your baseball is suggested to have come from it.”

“Maybe, I don’t know.”

Owen commences to laugh; “it’s definitely not the cricket game I know,” he says as an almost naked native hurls a ball at the batsman, whose bat is more a waddy or club than a cricket bat. He misses and the ball passes a row of half a dozen sticks driven into the ground, most probably representing wickets. It also passes a number of keepers behind; four in total. The ball is then chased up by those on fielding side, comprising of at least forty mostly naked players. The animated batsman drops his waddy and runs to the far end of what could be described as the pitch and back again, while the opposing field of players ran about in merry disarray. Once back at his end the procedure recommences without anyone apparently keeping tally of his runs.

“At least they appear to be enjoying themselves,” Owen concludes with a disbelieving nod of his head.

“And not killing each other as often happens up this way, I’ve heard the way to win any argument is with a spear or a machete,” Chip agrees as they depart to recommence their tour of Moresby and what it had to offer.

What first impressed Owen about the natives was how different they were from the lot back home, also the heat with humidity that drained the strength, as perspiration rain in rivulets soaking clothing after but a few paces of exertion.

“Keep up the fluids,” Chip warns, followed by a second word of advice being not to drink the local water unless it has been boiled.

With the excitement of the morning Owen had all but forgotten the previous night, until Chip parked the jeep at Paga Point overlooking the harbor and commenced to explain the vista and points of interest across the expanse of Port Moresby Harbour to Fairfax. With his hand outstretched and a finger pointing towards a small cargo vessel sunk near the port Chip diverts, “I believed the wounded won’t be down until tomorrow morning.”

“You said so earlier.”

“Tonight’s sleeping arrangements.”

“It is a little stuffy in the plane,” Owen suggests.

“We will be using the quarters.”

“What of my presence, will they mind?”

“I’ve spoken with the base commander and he’s fine with you being here as long as I take responsibility if anything would happen to you.”

“I feel guilty putting you through such a burden.”

“No don’t be, I like having someone to show about. Come on we should head back the guys will wonder where we are.” A half step to leave and Chip faltered. “Owen,” he says, his voice is curious.

“Yep, that’s me.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

On the return journey an uneasy quiet appears to develop. It is as if Chip was formulating a question and Owen too afraid to ask. Yet his mind is alive with questions, his chest fluttering with nervous tension, uncertain what signal placing his hand over that of Chip’s during the previous night had given. Did it imply he wished to continue, or was it to prevent further advance? Owen glanced towards Chip, who is concentrating on his driving not to run over the locals as they travelled through a busy roadside market.

Owen again recalls a past summer school holiday when the farm’s dam was built and the times he and his mate Ian Douglas found pleasure away from prying eyes. He remembers how sad he was when that summer ended. How to avoid the longing he had forced any developing emotion from his mind, as if drawing a dark curtain across it all. Now the dark curtain is lifting and all that remains is confusion. At last he could hold his silence no more.

“What is bothering you Chip?” Owen quietly asks.

“What makes you think I’m bothered?”

“It is as if you have something to say to me and can’t.”

Chip stops the jeep as a woman carrying a large basket of produce on her head walks in front without obvious concern for her safety, “silly women,” he growls, he gives a sharp honk.

The woman turns and gives a stream of abuse in language.

Chip laughs and gives a second honk.

In her own time the woman moves to the side of the road.

“It may be best if nothing is spoken,” Chip says as he moves on.

“No Chip I think it must be spoken.”

In sight of the airfield Chip pulls the jeep to the side of the road. Folding his arms he gazes directly ahead as if afraid to face Owen.

“It can’t be spoken here or now,” Chip says.

“Can it be said at all?” Owen asks.

“I would like it so.”

“Possibly so would I and my response would be positive.”

Chip restarts the motor and continues in silence towards the airfield but the impasse was broken and both Chip and Owen knew that sometime in the future there would be more to share.

“Where have you two been?” Hank Wilson loudly demands as they return to the airfield.

“I was showing Owen some of Moresby’s sights and we got sidetracked watching some dumb game.”

“The Colonel is looking for you?”

“Did he say why?”

“No but he said to see him as soon as you are back, by his attitude it didn’t seem urgent.”

Chip leaves Owen with Wilson while he goes in search of the field commander, finding him inspecting the damaged done in the earlier bombing raid. Chip approached and out of courtesy salutes.

“No need for formality here,” the officer says but weakly returns the salute, his partly open hand hardly passing the collar of his shirt.

“You were looking for me sir?”

“Yes Miller, about you taking on some of the wounded back to Mareeba.”

“Have they arrived?”

“Not as yet but I’ve advised the Mareeba field of your delay.”

“Any idea when the wounded will arrive,”

“Possibly early morning so could you arrange stretchers on board for them?”

“For how many?”

“It was suggested at least twelve, I’m a little short handed at present, you will need to use your crew and that young guy you brought along for the ride.”

“Owen Parker,” Chip coyly admits.

“Yes Parker, have him drafted into the air force for the day and he can help,” The officer smirks, “give him the temporary ranking of E-5 that should give the lad something to brag about on his return home.”

Chip found Owen waiting in the shade under the Dakota’s wing with the rest of the crew. He approached Wilson, “more bad news,” he says.

“What so boss?”

“We will be here until at least tomorrow.”

“Bugger,” Wilson growls.

“We are to arrange at least twelve stretchers for the return journey and the major suggests seeing he is short of men for us to do the work.”

“What about the natives?” Wilson questioned.

“They are either working on damage to the airstrip, or off enjoying their Sing-sing.” Chip turns to Owen, “and as for you Owen you are to be drafted into the air force for the duration.”

“Do I get paid?”

“Nope, so you will be a Yank until we return to Mareeba.”

“I like the idea, well being temporary drafted; possibly not being called a Yankee.”

“It comes with the territory I’m afraid,” Chip furthers.

Into the afternoon there was still no word on the progress of the wounded and as the wet season had set in, bringing them down from the mountains would be slow and arduous, so all they could do was wait, while occasionally casting eyes to the northern sky for returning Japanese bombers.

Late in the afternoon a flight of four P-51s arrived from Townsville to replace those damaged during a previous raid. Once on the ground one of the newly arrived pilots known to Chip, agreed to show Owen the workings of a P-51. After exhausting the use of every lever, dial and button and the pilot’s energy, Owen rejoined Chip and the crew while they listened into forces wireless.

“What’s the news,” Owen asks as he approached and hearing the crackling across the airways.

“It’s the BBC overseas news service reporting you Aussies have retaken Gona and Buna,” Arty Cox reports, while Brennan fiddled with the dials to obtain a better reception but instead making it worse.

“That’s the first to my knowledge,” Wilson admits.

“Where are Gona and Buna?” Owen asks.

“North of here near Sananada, the Japs have control of the entire northern coast and the islands in that area,” Arty Cox explains.

“It is funny how they know more about the war in the Pacific in England than we do but eighty miles from the fighting,” Brenner surmises.

“Shush there is more,” Wilson holds his hand out towards Brenner as if to silence him. The crackling intensifies.

“What did he say?” Brenner asks.

“Shush!” Wilson waves his hand to obtain further silence.

They all quietly listen.

“What did it say?” Brenner repeats.

“From what I heard Tojo reckons that during the fighting they shot down forty-four of our planes, sank two transports and a couple of patrol boats,” Wilson laughs, “that’s more planes than we have in the area at the moment.”

“Trouble is both sides exaggerate,” Chip says.

“Well young Owen what did you think of the P-51?” Wilson asks.

“It would be fun to fly one,”

“Fun you say? Now that’s novel and possibly so but if you had a Zero at full pelt on your arse you may not think it entertaining.”

“Which are better, Zero’s or P-51’s?”

“The Zero is a good carrier plane but due to design limitations not so good against our lot,” Wilson explains.

“So the P-51 is better?”

“It depends on who is flying it, besides the Japs seem to have a death wish and if out of ammo will aim their aircraft at your plane or ship.”

The evening’s meal was had in the rebuilt mess and surprising to Owen, there didn’t appear to be rationing with plenty for all. After it was a quick procession to the servicemen’s bar where Chip introduced Owen to Budweiser.

“What do you think of Budweiser?” Chip asks as Owen gulps down a good portion of his drink.

“Not bad.”

“Come on admit it’s a good brew.”

“Ummm.”

The crew’s eyes were on Owen.

“Come on kid which is the better, Bud or Bulimba?”

“I still prefer Bulimba Gold Top.”

“Ah it’s pig’s swill,” Hank laughs, with agreement from all, except of course Owen.

After their evening at the bar the crew joined others in a game of poker while Owen took a stroll around the base but was soon warned away from straying by the guard on sentry duty. “You keep within the perimeter kid,” he warns.

“Why so?”

“The natives may seem friendly but some of them would find pleasure in carving you up, especially if you are alone in the dark.”

“Does it happen very often?”

“On the occasion but it is mostly in Moresby and against their own.”

“Why would they kill their own?”

“It’s because Papua and the Territory is made up of six hundred different tribes, not counting those in Dutch West Irian and the Australian government forces them to live together. How would like to live with the Japs?’

“If they didn’t try to kill me, I suppose I’d cope.”

“There is the difference kid, most of the tribes up here have been warring for hundreds of years and eating each other.”

“Point taken I’ll keep with the perimeter.”

Later that night all was ready to receive the wounded on the following morning. Chip and his crew, including the United States air forces newly acquired rooky bedded down indoors with those from the base and not by wishful design, Owen found his bunk at the far end of the billet so there wasn’t any chance of a repeat of the previous night.

Inside the billet the air was close and stifling making sleep difficult, also there was much activity across the base and it appeared whenever a command was made, or a conversation shared, it happened but inches away from the head of his bunk on the far side of a thin metal wall. Added to it all was the continuous roaring of aircraft engines, either from departures or from the maintenance hangers as engines were tested. Eventually sleep came and dreaming took him back inside the Dakota. This time he was alone with Chip but before anything developed Owen was disturbed by the sound of voices beyond the billet.

Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com

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