26. Fortification

Langanipa’s promotion was just one part of a broader reorganisation of the Corps of Guardians. From the start, they had the dual responsibilities of maintaining the Tractor and defending its security and this separation was becoming more and more pronounced. The Technical Guardians had been recognised as a separate division, under the leadership of Lieutenant Bambafama who had been promoted to Captain in recognition of the extraordinary achievements of his team.

These included the introduction of two new energy sources – the water wheel and the use of palm oil as fuel as well. Iron smelting had been established and work on the second, oil powered Tractor was well under way.

Lieutenant Hasiki, who had led the Guardians in the Trading Expedition, was promoted to Captain in charge of the Guardian Defenders and a special rank of Captain-Major had been created for Paitor, in overall command of both branches.

Initially, having suffered a high rate of casualties in the Trading Expedition, Hasiki had been passed over for the plum Guardian jobs in the Hangar so that he had ended up in charge of constructing the first of the border forts – a job that no one else wanted. In the long run, however, this had proved an advantage because, having accomplished this successfully, he had continued in charge of the defence of the frontier.

As overall commander of the forces in the plantations and, therefore, of the vast majority of Guardian Defenders, he was the visible face of resistance to the occasional incursions of Hama Batu and his Shadows. Hasiki had learned the lessons of the Trading Expedition well, ensuring that his men always travelled in strength, well armed and ready to overwhelm anyone who attacked them with superior fire-power and discipline.

Remaining within the cleared area of the forts and plantations, he focussed on protecting the work of jungle clearance, so that the workers were well guarded. Every attack by the Shadows was beaten back – usually with heavy losses – and, as the forest was cleared and the planted area increased, the attacks became more sporadic so that it appeared that the Shadows were gradually losing heart and reducing in numbers – perhaps to just a fanatical hard core.

It must have been a difficult time for Hama Batu and his men. The forts were well protected, their territory was being eroded, their supporters deserting, so that even their occasional success – an attack on a careless group of workers or the destruction of some palm trees, perhaps – went unnoticed and unreported.
More and more , the forest dwellers were migrating into the plantations. When Hama Batu’s men arrived to obtain food, they had to take more from the groups that remained in the jungle, making themselves less and less popular. Even his promises of the return of the Americans and a time of plenty for everyone did not seem quite so convincing now that people could see an easier life in the plantations next door.

Hasiki, himself, led his men by example. He spent most of his time touring the forts, supervising the training of the men and talking to the Guardians and workers. He was a familiar, diminutive figure in the plantations, joining the working parties and taking a personal interest in the direction of the work.

The order in which the different areas were cleared was important to him. He always attended planning meetings to ensure that each new extension to the cultivated land could be defended easily and he would often walk up to us as we worked to enquire how things were going and whether we had any problems.

His right hand man was Sergeant Starling, another veteran of the Trade Expedition with a formidable reputation as a fighting man. When he was not on duty he could be found in the shebeens and bars of the shanties, an innocent smile on his face, a girl on each arm and a mug of corn liquor in his hand. He was very proud of an American saying that he had picked up somewhere: “I have no problem with drink.” He would say.
“I drink. I fall over. No problem.”

I only once saw him in action against the enemy when our working party was attacked as we were pegging out the plantation pattern. The Guardians were sitting talking nearby when one of our workers was struck by an arrow and a group of men, armed with axes and clubs ran towards us.

Instantly, Starling, appeared transformed , from an affable giant into a destructive whirlwind. Directing his men to right and left, he seized a rifle and brought down three of the attackers, then, with a machete he expertly felled two more. The remainder were already in flight, pursued by the rest of the platoon and the raid was beaten off leaving two of their number dead and five prisoners, four of whom were injured, with our only casualty the man who had been wounded by the arrow at the start of the attack.

The wounds of the prisoners were treated but two of them died later. The remaining three were sentenced to work in the plantations under guard and two of them ultimately remained as plantation workers after their sentence was over. The third was shot trying to escape.

That incident was quite unusual, at that time – the only attack on the plantations that I ever saw in the years before the war started officially. We took it for granted, in those days, that things would continue improve as we exploited our environment better. Looking back now, it seems difficult to believe that we never saw the warning signs but the explanation is simple: we were not looking for them.

I remember once when I was staying for a few weeks in the Guardian billets inside one of the stockades. I was woken just before dawn by a noise at the window. The window was open – if you can believer that – and without bars and as I looked from my bed I saw that there was someone trying to climb in.

I decided to wait until he was halfway in and then to leap up and grab him. The plan seemed like a good one but, as I leapt out of bed and across the room, he sprang back out the way he had come. I followed him and, as I emerged from the window, he was climbing over the gate and running away.

Without thinking, I ran after him, flung open the gate and followed him across the parade ground and out into the street. I was faster than the intruder and he jinked and zigzagged as he tried to get away. I could feel the stoney ground cutting into the soles of my feet, used as they were always to wear sandals, but I didn’t let up.

He threw down a piece of dirty cloth, perhaps thinking that it would trip me up but it was easy to avoid it and, as we came to a place where the road began to rise sharply he suddenly seemed to give up and slowed down so that I half dived, half ran into his back and brought him to the ground. It was only at this point that I suddenly saw my vulnerability.

We were alone a quarter of a mile from my room. I was wearing only a rather revealing pair of boxer shorts and the skin of the soles of my feet was torn so that I could hardly walk. Even now, years later, I don’t fully understand the incident. Somehow the fight seemed to have gone out of him and he walked meekly, with my arm heavy on his shoulder, as he half carried me back into the barracks.
When we arrived we were met by the guard who had been awakened by the commotion and they took the man in charge. He was very young – perhaps fifteen or sixteen – and the Sergeant grabbed him by the arm.

“What were you doing, trying to get into the room?” he asked.
“I thought it was my friend’s room.”
“What friend?” The Sergeant asked. “You were going to steal something, weren’t you?” He pushed the boy roughly so that he fell over. “What were you trying to steal?”
“I thought it was my friend’s room.” The boy repeated, getting to his feet. “I wanted to visit him.”
“You wanted to visit your friend at five o’clock in the morning?” The Sergeant cuffed him about the head so that he put his hands up to fend off the blows and sat down again. “You’ll have to come up with a better story than that. I’m taking you down to the cells so that you can think about what you really want to tell me.”

I believe that was the last time that I saw my intruder but a couple of hours later the Sergeant came to see me.
“Tell me, Tommu,” he said, puzzled, “do you have any idea why he might have wanted to break into your bedroom? Did you have anything there of value, that he might have wanted to steal?”
“Nothing at all.” I replied. “My things are all down in my house in the village. All he would have been able to take were a couple of shirts or shorts. The clothes I wear every day and some papers from my work.”

“Would any of those have any value, do you think?”
“Not that I can see.” I thought carefully. “All that I have is the planting plans for the next week or two – where we will be working, which fields we will be ploughing, where we will be doing weeding, where we will be transplanting the palms. None of that is particularly important or secret. We tell the teams about that every evening so that they can report for work the next day.”
“Well it’s quite strange.” The Sergeant was thoughtful. “We kicked seven kinds of sense into him without squeezing even one drop of sense out of him. He rambles on about his friend and then he admits he wanted to steal something. Then he denies it. It just doesn’t add up.”

“What will you do with him?” I asked.
“There’s nothing much we can do with him. I’ll hang onto him for a while and make him join the work parties but that won’t really achieve anything. If nothing more comes up in the next couple of weeks, we’ll just let him go.” He looked thoughtful. “Oh. I almost forgot. What do you make of this?”

He held out a grubby leather thong with a small pouch attached. I opened it and looked at the contents.
“A tiny wooden Tractor?”
“Yes,” the Sergeant said, “and very carefully carved. With a knife that goes right through its engine. As if someone has stabbed it; cut it right through. He had it round his neck. I can’t imagine what it means.”
“Neither can I. Do you mind if I keep it for a while to examine it?”
“Not at all.” He said. “I was going to throw it away.”