The Pacific Read online

  As a war correspondent covering the Second World War, Ilsa Stahl isn’t afraid to be on the front line. But when her plane goes down in a terrible storm over Papuan waters and she is taken prisoner by the Japanese, she has every reason to be terrified. Particularly as they plan to hand her over to the Nazis.

  When Jack Kelly discovers that his only daughter has fallen into the clutches of the enemy, he will stop at nothing to save her. Even if it means risking the life of his only son, Lukas. No one knows Papua the way they do; they may be Ilsa’s only hope but time is running out.

  Meanwhile, Major Karl Mann is sent on a secret mission to Indochina that will see him embroiled in Ilsa’s rescue mission in ways he could never have imagined.

  This sweeping saga continues the story of the Kellys and Manns, following Peter Watt’s much-loved characters as they fight to survive one of the most devastating conflicts in history – the war at Australia’s doorstep.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Blurb

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About Peter Watt

  Also by Peter Watt

  Fan emails to Peter Watt

  Copyright

  For Geoffrey Radford, great friend and agent

  PROLOGUE

  Paris, France

  Early Winter, 1944

  Ilsa Stahl sat on the edge of the bed in the tiny but comfortable hotel room. She was dressed in her thick airman’s leather jacket and tan combat trousers, both still muddied from the battle lines. Her fingers shook as she read the telegram. Forgotten beside her was the mug of strong sweet coffee she’d made from the army ration pack she carried with her everywhere.

  She’d seen more than her share of death and destruction during the last five years she’d spent as a war correspondent, but this death was too close. She started to weep. Months of pent-up tension mixed with the overwhelming grief of her loss. She had been following the Allied crusade across the Normandy beaches and into the open fields of France in pursuit of the retreating German Army, and her life had been in danger more times than she cared to admit.

  Despite her German origins, Ilsa Stahl was an American citizen covering the war for an internationally acclaimed New York newspaper. Her father had been a high-ranking Nazi official who had defected to the USA before the war. Ilsa had grown up in America; a highly intelligent child, she had known from an early age that she wanted to be a journalist, and her parents, both dead now, had encouraged her in this. Her first overseas posting had been to the Pacific after the outbreak of war in Europe when the USA was still neutral. She’d been writing for a Lutheran journal and had been given the task of investigating the conditions of German missionaries in the territories controlled by the Australian government.

  Later she’d been recruited by the New York newspaper and had begun covering the campaign in the Pacific; in the last few years she’d been based in England, attached to the brilliant but ruthless General George Patton. Her dispatches had been sent home to be read by New Yorkers over their morning coffee, safe from the horrors of this war.

  Twelve hours ago she had suddenly been recalled from the front lines, with no explanation other than that she was to take leave until a certain matter could be sorted out.

  She looked up from the telegram, her vision blurred with tears. How ironic it was that she was sitting in a hotel room overlooking the River Seine as it snaked its way through a city famous for its romance.

  There was a gentle knock at the door and Ilsa quickly used the thick sleeve of her jacket to wipe away the tears. She couldn’t believe Clark was missing.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called, trying to sound composed.

  ‘It’s me. Randy,’ came a familiar voice.

  Ilsa unlocked the hotel door to a short, solid man wearing a similar uniform to her own. Between his lips was a thick unlit cigar. He put his arms around her and held her tight as the tears came again. Randolph Herbst was her photographer and their friendship had been forged through difficult and dangerous times.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I heard from head office that you’d got bad news. I know how much you loved Clark.’

  Ilsa stared at the peeling wallpaper. ‘MIA,’ she said bitterly. ‘Which, as we both know, usually means injured so badly that no identification can be made.’

  Ilsa began to tremble and Randy took her hand and led her to the bed.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’

  Ilsa could tell from the look on his face that it was bad news. Surely things couldn’t get any worse.

  ‘You have orders to report back to the New York office,’ Randy said slowly. ‘You’re to catch an army flight back to London tomorrow morning and then fly on to New York. Your bookings have already been made.’

  Ilsa jumped to her feet. ‘Goddamned Patton and his staff are behind this, I know it.’ She felt a surge of anger and, somehow, that was easier to bear than the grief.

  Randy shrugged as if he suspected that she was right. He walked to the door.

  ‘Thought you might like to join me later to toast your illustrious career,’ he said, then added gently, ‘I know you’re in pain, kiddo, but just for tonight you can drown your memories in good red wine.’ He clenched his cigar between his teeth and shut the door behind him.

  *

  Ilsa left the next day for London, with a bad hangover. At least her pounding headache distracted her from her disappointment at being recalled at such a crucial time in the Allied offensive. She had the awful suspicion that she would be expected to see out the rest of the war covering social events in New York. She’d be damned if she was going to do that.

  Her German blood made her determined but it was the touch of Irish in her that made her impulsive. For that, Ilsa could thank the biological father she barely knew on the other side of the world. It had come as quite a shock to learn that the man she’d grown up thinking of as her father was in fact her stepfather, and she had been conceived during a love affair her mother had had before her marriage. Now it seemed that her natural father, Jack Kelly, and his son, her half-brother, were the only family she had left in the world, although they were virtual strangers. She had met them once but lost contact in the turmoil of war. With her fiancé missing in action, Ilsa found herself strangely in need of a father’s reassurance. She didn’t know how she was going to manage it, but she was determined to find a way to travel to the Pacific and find Jack Kelly again.

  *

  Imperial Japanese Navy Headquarters

  Rabaul Harbour, New Guinea

  All hell broke loose as Petty Officer First Class Fuji Komine marched smartly across the parade ground in front of the Japanese Imperial Naval Headquarters.

  The air around him was suddenly filled with the explosive crash of anti-aircraft fire. Fuji broke into a run to clear the open space as five shapes in the sky turned from dots to the distinctive American P-38 Lightning fighters, with their twin booms and short fuselage. Large .50 calibre bullets from the M2 Browning machine guns mounted in the aircrafts’ noses poured with deadly effect onto the targets below. Fuji
heard the thud of the heavy bullets tearing into the stone headquarters.

  As he sprinted for the shelter of the building, a soldier in front of him raised his rifle to counter the surprise attack by the low-flying American fighter planes. Geysers of earth sprayed up around the soldier and he was thrown backwards, a bloody, mutilated corpse. Fuji looked up; the fighter was so low overhead that he could see the goggled face of the pilot and hear the spent cartridge cases hitting the ground.

  Fuji had hardly reached the steps of the grand building when the departing drone of the enemy aircraft signalled the end of the attack. The five Lightning fighters roared upwards into the clear skies, leaving behind ripped and mangled human flesh and drums of fuel burning down on the docks.

  Fuji’s heart was thumping with fear and exertion. The attack had only lasted seconds but it had felt like hours. He became aware of a hand patting him on the shoulder, and looked up to see his fellow petty officer and friend Oshiro.

  ‘They must have had ammunition left over,’ said Oshiro. ‘Decided to use it up on us on their way back to base.’

  Fuji nodded his agreement. Most aerial attacks had ceased on Rabaul Harbour, but now the Australian Army had cut off the strategically vital naval base at the narrowest section of the island just south of Japanese naval headquarters. The American fighters had not dropped bombs, so Fuji concurred that they had simply detoured over the harbour to use up their ammunition.

  So far the Australians had not attempted to take the Japanese base at Rabaul; they knew better than to engage in a pitched battle with over 90,000 garrison troops determined to die to the last man. But the enemy had effectively disabled the Japanese by first setting up bases all around them and cutting off resupply, and then besieging the harbour town. How times had changed since those heady days of 1942 when the Japanese had overrun the Asian and Pacific lands to the north and west. Now the Allies, chiefly the Americans, were pushing the Japanese back home and the only relatively safe way to enter or exit Rabaul Harbour was by submarine.

  ‘Are you to attend the meeting?’ asked Oshiro.

  Fuji nodded. He and Oshiro were outsiders amongst the senior noncommissioned naval officers. Oshiro had been born in Okinawa, one of Japan’s most southern prefectures, and Fuji had been born in Papua. Although they considered themselves unstintingly loyal to the Emperor, their comrades still looked down on them.

  The two of them reported to a clerk, who consulted some papers and then indicated they should make their way to a room at the end of the corridor. There they were ushered inside by a smartly dressed Japanese soldier. The room was spacious and an overhead ceiling fan circulated the musty air. There were twelve Special Naval Landing Forces marine troops sitting in chairs facing a lectern. Fuji knew that these men, who considered themselves an elite fighting force, were survivors of the mauling handed out by the Australians at the Battle of Milne Bay.

  One of the marines called attention and everyone in the room jumped to their feet to stand rigidly staring straight ahead. From the corner of his eye Fuji could see two commissioned naval officers enter the room, swords at their sides.

  His blood ran cold and he began to tremble. The junior of the two officers was the man who had executed Fuji’s Motuan lover, Keela, a couple of years earlier. He remembered a beach in southern New Guinea and the beautiful girl kneeling as the curved sword blade flashed in the bright sunlight. Then her head rolled across the blood-soaked sand as Fuji watched helplessly. Now the same man stood arrogantly beside the lectern and commanded the men to sit.

  ‘On behalf of the Emperor’s Imperial Navy, I welcome you men to this briefing,’ said the senior officer, a grey-haired kaigun daisa. ‘You have been selected because of your unique skills and proven courage. We have a mission of great importance to the progress of the war against our enemy. It will require the utmost test of your bravery, but you have been chosen as true warriors willing to sacrifice everything for your Emperor.’

  Fuji was so mesmerised by the sword hanging in the scabbard worn by the junior officer that he hardly heard his name being called. He could feel himself filling with a murderous rage. Oshiro nudged him sharply in the ribs and Fuji stood bolt upright with his hands stiffly by his side. ‘Sir,’ he answered dutifully.

  ‘Petty Officer First Class Fuji Komine has previously carried out dangerous operations behind enemy lines and is able to speak the local native language,’ the senior officer said. ‘He also has a good knowledge of our enemy, as he was born amongst the barbarians and speaks English. He will be your liaison officer with the native population on this mission.’

  Another name was called and a marine stood to attention as his credentials were read out. Each member of the team proved to be tough and experienced in jungle warfare.

  ‘The Americans are attempting a two-pronged attack against us,’ the senior officer continued. ‘General MacArthur has led his army through New Guinea and landed in the Philippines, whilst Admiral Nimitz is crossing the Pacific with his fleet to attack the chain of islands to the south of our homeland. The Allies are weak people who do not like to suffer casualties and they will not be able to withstand our forces when they encounter them closer to our homeland. They will be driven back into the sea and forced to concede to a treaty with us. Your mission is to disrupt their lines of communication in their rear echelons, which will help our forces defeat the coming battles for the homeland islands. You will be under the command of Kaigin dai Yoshi, who will brief you on the tactics to be used in disrupting the enemy. Because of the unfortunate circumstances of our situation at the moment, I should inform you that I cannot guarantee that you will receive a lot of support from our imperial forces in your mission. You will be outnumbered and in time your presence will no doubt be known to the enemy. Other than naval contact by submarine and radio, you will be alone. Your deaths will be those of heroes to the Emperor.’

  With these words he turned to the man beside him and acknowledged his smart salute before leaving the room. Despite his hatred for Lieutenant Yoshi, Fuji found that he was eager to hear how they would contribute to the war against the barbarian enemy. Lieutenant Yoshi took his position behind the lectern and, using a long cane, began pointing out geographic locations on the large-scale map behind him.

  That evening Oshiro drank more sake than usual and burst into the sad folksongs of his beloved Okinawa, his arm around Fuji’s shoulders.

  ‘I will never see my family again,’ he said in a moment of melancholy. ‘But my family will remember that I was a hero for Japan.’ He raised his cup in a bitter salute.

  Fuji raised his cup in silent reply. It seemed inevitable that he would die in the service of the Emperor but he would be damned if Lieutenant Yoshi didn’t die with him.

  ONE

  The sun was rising over a tropical sea of glass. To the port side of the forty-foot wooden motorboat, the Riverside, lay the New Guinea coast. Lukas Kelly gripped the handles of the American machine gun, sweat rolling down his naked chest.

  ‘Take her in, Mel,’ he quietly commanded his helmsman.

  Melvin Jones was a heavily built American in his sixties, a former merchant seaman now employed by the American Army in their Pacific campaign. He and Lukas, who had recently been discharged from the New Guinea Volunteer Rifles, crewed the civilian vessel for resupply duties, as well as to move small forces along the coast. The boats were under the control of the United States Army Transportation Corps. It seemed strange to Lukas to steam under the American flag and, to all intents and purposes, be a private in the American Army.

  Before the war Lukas had been employed flying Hollywood stars, such as Errol Flynn, around the region. Now he was part of a service that employed those between the ages of fifteen and seventy who were medically unfit to serve. Lukas had comrades who were missing a limb but still served in the small-boats flotilla. He himself had lost an eye in an air crash in America but had managed, in the early days of the war, to bluff his way into active service with the militia unit forme
d by the expatriate men of the Papua and New Guinea territories. Now, because of his experience navigating his father’s plantation supply schooner, he was the skipper of one of the converted civilian boats that ran the gauntlet of enemy naval and air forces along the coast of New Guinea.

  Like Lukas, Mel was stripped to the waist. His big belly hung over his waistband and sweat trickled down his hairy chest. He was under a canvas awning that stretched the length of the boat, and behind him stood three Papuans wearing their traditional lap-laps.

  Mel opened up the throttle. They were late for the rendezvous and should have been on post before first light deep in waters patrolled by Japanese warships. Other than the .50 calibre machine gun, they had only a collection of small arms, but that did include a couple of Bren guns as back-up, with a good supply of ammunition, as well as Owen submachine gun for use ashore in the dense jungle.

  The Riverside cruised in the placid waters until it was close to the coconut-covered stretch of sand where the supplies for the resident coastwatcher were to be landed. Lukas knew these waters well, as he had sailed them with his father before the war.