Weapons of choice

Just before dawn a freezing gale howled down from between the jagged, broken teeth of the Saruwageds, blowing away the mist and their last excuse for staying tucked up in the relative warmth and comfort of the cave. Ryan and Kari ate three tins of bully beef and a packet of biscuits, washed down with a canteen of water collected from the many trickles of condensation running down the smooth black rock face outside their shelter. They put on their last dry socks and best boots, gave Constable Dinkila strict instructions about caring for and guarding the carriers, and then they set off, carrying their Owen guns and long lengths of vine rope.

They traversed a sickeningly steep, razor-thin ridgeline on their hands and knees before plunging back into the forest. Ryan thought it akin to stepping into a darkened basement from a bright-lit garden. A soft dark green, evil-looking moss covered everything, sometimes to a thickness of a foot. Trees took on the appearance of fleshy, bloated green monsters from one of Grimm's fairy tales. Walking was a matter of sinking their feet into a spongy, moss-covered sludge of rotting vegetable matter. Sometimes they sank in up to their thighs. At one point, curious about the true depth of the strange, clotted mulch, Ryan pushed in sharpened stick. It was eight feet long and met no resistance. They trod more carefully after that.

The complete absence of hard edges or solid surfaces served to dampen any sound. Their voices sounded flat and alien to them, and they found that after a while they had fallen into the habit of talking only in harsh whispers. Ryan thought the silence unearthly. Their footfalls made no noise apart from a sort of muffled squelch as they withdrew their boots from the sucking green ooze. Occasionally a small rat would dart out and run off. But no skittering or rustling attended its flight.

Eventually, the eerie forest gave way to sparse stunted upland of twisted, dead, iron-gray tree trunks. Many exhausting hours were spent threading their way through the tangle. Ryan wondered whether the carriers would have been able to come this far anyway. Rain began to fall, and Kari pulled on a curious, tentlike cowl of laced pandanus leaves, giving Ryan the impression he was walking behind a native hut on legs.

It was one of the few light moments of the trek.

A sharp, stabbing pain had settled into his chest, just below the heart. His nose bled and he was thirsty all the time, no matter how much he drank. When they passed out of the rain band, Kari stopped and built a small fire from a supply of kindling he had tied to his belt. They warmed themselves and heated a pot of water for tea. Ryan produced some sugar from a small cloth bag and tipped it in. They revived their spirits with the strong, black brew and a couple of Constable Dinkila's yam pancakes, eaten cold with a smear of Vegemite.

"Getting close now, boss," said Kari. "You want to finish it today or tomorrow."

Ryan really wanted to be home in Melbourne, curled up with a good book in front of a warm fire. But he said, "Today. It's important. The orders came directly from MacArthur's HQ."

"Maybe the big fellah should be here himself," Kari said, grinning. "If he's so keen to know what's up there."

"Maybe," Ryan agreed. "But he's not. And unfortunately we are. So it's onward and upward."

They cleaned up the makeshift rest site, kicked out the small fire with deep regret, and set their course for the next ridge. It was early afternoon, but darkness was gathering as the daily shroud of mist appeared and the sun passed over the top of the range. Light and heat leaked out of the day. Ryan checked their map.

"The possum hunter's hut should be just over that saddle," he whispered, pointing ahead about five hundred yards. "And then the crash site, another hour beyond that."

"If the village headman wasn't lying," said Kari.

"Yes," Ryan agreed, "there's always that."

They hauled themselves through an increasingly dense field of the limestone outcrops. Sometimes the slabs were so large they presented the blank facade of a great wall. Ryan felt giddy and nauseous from the thinness of the air. He stopped at one point and made the nearly fatal error of sitting down. At once, deliciously warm waves of lassitude stole through every muscle in his body. Sinking down against the hard wet rock felt as luxurious and decadent as crawling into bed in some opulent hotel suite. He recalled, in almost Proustian detail, the soft pillows and thick blankets of his childhood bed. How nice it would be to tuck himself in under the covers for just a few…

Sergeant Kari manhandled him to his feet.

"Sorry, boss. No good to be sleeping up here. Never wake up again."

Ryan apologized for his weakness. They'd been on patrol for weeks when the new orders came through for them at Kirkland's, down near the river crossing. He was really in no fit state for this Lord Jim jungle wallah nonsense.

He put one foot in front of the other and painfully got himself moving again.