At 92, and still going strong, the artist and sculptor HAL HOLMAN OL OAM bears the national awards of two countries – Papua New Guinea and Australia. - along with his military regalia. During World War II he was an Australian commando in New Guinea. This chapter from his unpublished memoir, The Phoenix, tells of his first patrol through the PNG Highlands….
ON 8 January 1943, I was one of a group of 13 men who volunteered for a patrol in the Central Highlands of Papua New Guinea.
The Highlands was strategically vital to the New Guinea defences against the invading Japanese forces. It was a vast plateau at an average altitude of 2,000 meters above sea level.
We boarded three Lockheed Hudson aircraft at Ward's airfield (one of the several landing fields in the area) in Port Moresby and were flown to our starting point, a crude 1,200 meter landing strip at Bena Bena, constructed entirely by native labour who had been employed by the missionaries before the war.
The grass on the airstrip, we found out later, was kept mown by the Bena Bena tribe using only sharpened and bent lengths of flattened steel, a sarif, that looked like a machete, the blade tip of which was hooked at an angle similar to a golf club (not like a scythe). By slashing to and fro the grass was kept short.
Bena Bena plateau was about 300 km from Moresby in the middle of the Owen Stanley Range. It was rugged country to reach, and meant an extremely rough passage by aircraft because of unexpected updraughts, downdraughts and turbulence. On the way our pilot informed us that clouds might prevent us from landing and we may have to try for Salamaua.
"Apart from that,” said the pilot, “if anything goes wrong there are only enough parachutes for the crew, so keep your fingers crossed.
“You'll also notice there are no weapons in the gun turrets so if we are attacked just shove your sub-machine gun out of any hole and try your luck – but, for Christ's sake don't shoot our bloody tail off!"
There were certainly holes in the aircraft: we practically froze owing to the lack of insulation. We were not attacked and the clouds cleared just before we landed on the bumpy, noticeably uphill Bena Bena landing strip on the side of a mountain.
When the Hudson took off, it dropped off the end of the airstrip alarmingly, only to re-appear safely in the valley below.
An ANGAU (Australian New Guinea Administrative Unit) patrol officer, Snow Davis, met us on our arrival at Bena Bena. He shook hands all round as our Sergeant, Bill Twohill, introduced us. Davis was to guide us on the first leg of our journey to a village named Kundiawa.
The Highlanders were quite small and clothed in a wide basket-weave belt supporting a long, woven g-string that was wide enough to serve as a narrow skirt as well. A few wore laplaps issued by the missionaries.
Those in traditional dress had what first appeared to be a bunch of pot-plant leaves shoved in the rear of their belt – the Pidgin English description of which was ‘arse grass.’ It was both decorative and an insect deterrent.
This local tribe also sported a strange, thin necklace of highly-polished cane in the form of a loop. Davis informed us that, at a ceremonial banquet when these guys gorged themselves, they thrust the loops down their throats to disgorge their stomach contents, and start all over again.
The moment we emerged from the aircraft the tribe had let out a mighty roar and I must admit it was a tense moment for all of us. Apart from crowding us as we tried to walk between them, they began by reaching out and feeling our bodies with particular attention to fondling our buttocks and genitals.
"I think they're either poofs or bloody cannibals,” yelled Bluey Curran-Smith over the din.
Davis intervened and assured us this was a harmless way of showing friendship. The tribesmen also chanted two distinct words while they were reaching down to our genitals with beckoning gestures saying, "Seearnay. Mornai. Seearnay. Mornai."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" asked Jack Dellar.
"It's only their way of saying they like you so much they would enjoy eating your backside and privates," explained the patrol officer.
"There! I told you, bloody cannibals!" yelled Bluey.
"Blokes, please believe me they are perfectly harmless and well-meaning. Just try to ignore it and for God's sake smile!" pleaded Davis.
Our orders were to apprehend all alien missionaries and citizens. This meant Germans and Japanese and their supporters.
We were also to carry out patrols and reconnoitre enemy movements, make accurate track records, establish observation posts, send back radio and written reports, and carry out native administration and propaganda in favour of our defending forces.
After the difficult job of organising the cargo for the long line of carriers – two tribesmen to each pole from which was suspended a carefully weighed and balanced load-- we set out on the long trail ahead.
When we volunteered we were told the task would only take a month; little did we realise that we had an ordeal of seven months ahead of us.
Included in our cargo we had enough ammunition, equipment, and rations to give us independence for about a month, but to extend our operations we needed to trade with the villagers for food.
To do this we were warned by Davis that on no account should we upset the established economy by exceeding the agreed values of the recognised currency – beach shells, salt, tomahawks, axe heads and beads.
The shells most valued in the Highlands at that time were the gold lip mother-of-pearl shells, which came from the pearl diving fleets, mainly in the Darwin area. These were called Kina, a word since acquired for the PNG currency. Although Kina shells had a ready market for shirt button manufacture, they were worth far more in the landlocked Highlands of New Guinea.
At this time, a Kina half-shell would buy the wage of a carrier for one month. It was also the going price for a fully-grown pig. It was of equal value to a steel axe, and either of them was the recognised price for a wife.
The axe was the treasure of them all. These magnificent Highland people had developed their own stone axes; wonderfully hewn from their local rocks and set in a shaft that was decorated with woven cane.
After watching an attempt to hack down a lofty tree with such a primitive implement one had no doubt about how very precious a steel axe was in this country.
There were other shells in the currency, in particular cowries. Others were Giri Giri, Gam, and Tambu. All the shells were used as personal adornment - necklaces, armbands, bandoliers, chest plates, head-dresses and nose and ear decorations.
Included in the trading goods were trinkets, beads, mirrors, razor blades and machetes – not forgetting something with great purchasing power – salt.
The plateau inhabitants were entirely dependent on salt being available along the trade routes from the distant coastlines. These supplies were unreliable, as they were on a sort of relay system from village to village all the way to the salt water.
Any hostilities along the way would halt the supply until the trouble was over. The salt that arrived by this avenue was not the pure white product we were used to – it was a tarnished brown colour.
Carriers must eat so, apart from the cargo, they carried their own food for the duration of the patrol. In this area we did not need to include a many stores for them, there being plenty of food we could purchase along the way.
In a protein-deficient area like this, meat was the most prized food, so the carriers lugged along their ration of canned corned beef ("bully beef" in the army and abus in Pidgin English).
Rice, too, was part of their ration, so this they also bore. Our own rations were just as Spartan with a few civilised extras. We were told we could trade for meat – chickens and pigs (there was no beef), and possibly ducks. Vegetables were aplenty.
Just before moving off, Davis mentioned there were only two preferred positions to take on a trek: "You'll find it is better to walk either at the head of the column or at the extreme tail end; for good reason.
“Because of the altitude you'll find it gets very chilly at night, hence the locals smear themselves with pig grease to protect themselves from the cold. The river water temperature discourages bathing, so on a long march in the heat of the day, depending on the wind, you can pick which end will make your nose happier.
“Down in the Ramu River valley or the Markham, you are sometimes better off at the rear of the column – the leaders encounter any snakes lying on the track, but the leeches haven't woken up. The carriers in the middle cop the leeches and with luck they have all found hosts before they get to you, bringing up the rear."
We headed for Goroka, some 15 miles away. There was an unused airstrip there and in the area missionaries had installed a homemade, hydro-electric plant with a small but useful output.
As we proceeded we could hear villagers, who had positioned themselves on various salient features, calling to each other. Their voices echoed for miles along the way.
"They're sending out the talk,” explained Davis. "By now the tribes about 60 km away in Hagen will know you’ve arrived and how many of you are here."
By this stage we were approaching a village, the grass houses were round and low, with no windows, a single small door and a thatched roof so low that the occupants could not stand erect.
A large area around the group of huts was scrupulously cleared.
In spite of the primitive design of the huts they were perfect for the environment. Inside in the middle there was a fireplace on the floor. There was no real chimney – the smoke found its way out through the grass–thatch roof.
The residents crowded in at night as the cold gathered. When the fire was lit, the food was cooked. The smoke discouraged vermin, the fire warmed the bodies and everyone slept well.
Our accommodation problems had been solved many years before by the missionaries and especially the patrol officers (kiaps) who made a practice of insisting that the tribes in frequently visited villages built a suitable house for visitors.
These were strictly for the use of government personnel and any travelling companions and were called haus kiap, a Pidgin English term meaning ‘patrol officer’s accommodation’. The dwellings were made of local materials – grass-thatch roof, woven bamboo floors and walls, round sapling poles for the framework and built on stilts for safety and ventilation.
The bamboo floors were strong and springy and were made by splitting round, hollow poles then flattening them. This made for a smooth shiny surface with cracks between them. The inside surface of the poles faced downward; they were then woven to form a continuous floor.
Ventilation was assured, but inappropriate as soon as the sun went down. Sanitation was guaranteed, for everything, even a wristwatch could slip down through a crack in the floor.
Within 500 meters of the village the road had been transformed from a smooth dirt road to the most amazing floral design that any of us had ever seen. The villagers had clearly travelled miles to collect the blossoms.
As far as the eye could see in this part of the plateau only vast tracts of grass were evident and yet the variety of blooms suggested that they were collected in some fertile forest of lush tropical growth. We felt guilty to be walking on their artistic tribute.
"Bet your bottom dollar we don't get a welcome back like this in Aussie," said Jack Dellar.
"Speak for yourself," piped in Ron Norton. “Mine will be better!"
"Pig's arse it will."
None of us was prepared for the shock we were about to experience as we rounded a bend in the road. Stretched across our path were at least 200 of the fiercest looking warriors – dressed to kill.
The tribe let out an ear-splitting roar that filled the surrounding hills with echoes upon echoes – they brandished spears that were not merely pointed shafts. In many cases they resembled tridents. They were of the most intricate design with countless barbs.
Once these were thrust into a victim the chances of extraction would be nil. Broad-bladed stone axes of equally frightening appearance were waved with menace along with bows and arrows in clenched fists held high. To add to our concern their line spread sideways and curved around us in a crescent shaped manoeuver similar to one of our tactics in warfare.
Our sub-machine gun muzzles began to tilt upwards as we started to spread out line abreast instead of maintaining our vulnerable single file.
The warriors wore lofty head–dresses of Bird-of-Paradise feathers. Their noses had bones or shells pierced through the septum. Even their ears had been pierced; in some cases stretched with a cane spiral until the ear lobe resembled a large ring of calamari – or worse, it had snapped and now hung down in two sad remnants.
Little did these fearless tribesmen realize just how close they were to annihilation. Little did we realise that not one of these people wished to harm us; it was all show business turned on for our benefit.
Davis was fast in assessing the situation and rushed out in front of us with his hands in the air and called out, "It's OK! It's OK!" The tribe was silenced in an instant.
"It's their way of saying welcome. You are expected to shake hands and salute all the men in the front row. Starting with the Luluai, he's the Chief, then the Tultul, he's No. 2. After that proceed to the rest of them.
“You're gonna have a sore hand at the end of it. Follow me and you can't go wrong."
With that he turned to the Luluai and proceeded down the line. It was one agonizing and bone-crushing experience. A Luluai was a traditional chief and in most villages he only spoke the local language or tok piles as it was known in Pidgin).
Officers of the Administration (such as Patrol Officers like Snow Davis and District Officers) had appointed the Tultul to act as interpreter— as his name suggests he was a tool for the government. He was issued with a policeman's peaked cap and badge for easy identification.
After the formalities we sat with the chief and his entourage while gifts were exchanged. We stated our purpose in passing through their land and this was followed by our guide buying at least two hundredweight (approximately 100 kg) of fruit and vegetables for our carriers and us. He used cowrie shells of three different sizes for the transaction. It seemed to me to be very poor payment considering that the shells could hardly fill two hands.
“What exploitation is this?” I protested, “They’re cheating primitive people with these baubles, bangles and beads! “
“Gidgee don’t rock the boat,” said Bill Twohill. “They consider this is a good deal. They are satisfied that in their community they have made a handsome gain. Remember, we were warned against mucking up their economy.”
It was the women who were the beasts of burden here, carrying considerable loads of food and firewood – even their babies were in string bags called bilums which were carried on their backs, with the handles strung around their head and forehead. We men ogled their bare-breasted torsos.
The vegetables for the cargo carriers were kaukau (sweet potato), taro (a broad-leafed root vegetable), sugar cane and bananas. Up here on the plateau the missionaries had planted crops that were more to our liking: cabbage, beans, peas, even strawberries and pineapples (called ananas in Pidgin). They had also bottled some very fine wines.
Although Bill Twohill was certainly not a wowser, he managed to keep a tight rein on us and made sure we didn’t over indulge.
Everyone liked Bill. There was nothing about this man that was offensive. When you spoke to him, he would lean earnestly towards you, and you knew he was honestly listening to your every word. He had a ready smile and an alert mind – the Company couldn't have chosen a better man to lead this Bena Bena Patrol. He was a soldier through and through.
We continued until we entered a village just before Kundiawa. Twohill had decided it would be a short stop and we should then push on to make Kundiawa before sunset. When we stayed overnight in Goroka previously, I had gathered up a .44 calibre lever-action rifle that had been left behind by an evacuee from a house that we camped in. There was, in addition, a box of cartridges.
I could not resist carrying it along with me. Although it was non-issue and nowhere near as good as my Thomson machine gun for our purposes, it levelled the playing field between giants and a diminutive man like me.
By the time we reached the next village the whole column was stretched out like Brown's cows with me bringing up the rear. Immediately in front were about 10 carriers who had closed ranks and were chattering excitedly and glancing at me.
They seemed to have noticed something up ahead which caused their agitation. Suddenly they were yelling and veering to one side of the road as a fearsome pig blundered onto the roadway – "Wild pig! Wild pig! Wild pig!" they all screamed while a couple dropped their cargo and rushed to my side. Even though my Pidgin at that stage was fairly basic it was clear that they were imploring me to shoot it without delay. So I did, with my trusty .44 calibre gun.
What followed was the most incredible and bloody melee I have ever witnessed. My shot had killed the beast instantly – it was literally stopped in its tracks by the staggering impact of this awesome weapon. The friendly people went into a frenzy of blood lust as they tore the creature limb from limb, fighting savagely for portions of the animal. The whole carcass seemed to vanish within minutes.
After shouldering my rifle with a lot more respect for its frightening stopping power, I ordered the carriers to pick up their loads and to proceed.
An uncanny silence fell upon the assembled tribe as we threaded up the rise towards them. Bill Twohill was with the chief and patrol officer Davis and everyone looked ominous and glowering.
It was only then that I realized that I had been duped. In this protein-starved land the stakes were high enough to cheat for. In my vulnerability and ignorance I had shot a prized domestic pig. So fond of their pigs are these people that some mothers will suckle an orphan piglet on one breast and their child on the other. They grieve when the pig is slaughtered for it is considered to be one of their family.
"Corporal Holman,” said Sergeant Twohill, “please put down your weapons and gear. This is a serious thing you've done and we need your apology and explanation.
“Not only have you killed a village pig, worse still, it belonged to the family of the chief. We have agreed to pay for the animal. I want to know how this happened. Why did you shoot it?"
I explained the fiasco regretting I had been so gullible. "I would like the chief to know that I am deeply sorry for him and his family, I ask him to pardon me for this awful mistake."
Davis translated my story into Pidgin and the Tultul converted the whole thing into the local language. It was a long-winded business, with me wondering just how much of my original account got through. I'm pleased to say I survived that one.
On arrival at Kundiawa we met the ANGAU District Officer for the Ramu area, Captain JR Black, who directed us to apprehend four missionaries. These men were of German extraction – in fact we heard that one particular fellow had a portrait of Adolph Hitler in his study and various items bearing the Nazi swastika plus a few maps that were better than ours.
Our maps at that stage of the campaign were almost entirely plain dark green, with no other detail than a few meandering dotted lines representing walking trails through the terrain as used by the native people. There were no contour lines to assess the nature of the terrain to be negotiated.
On one morning during a short stay in a vacated mission house, I was still in bed when Corporal Wilson and Private Burrows shook me and drew my attention to a tribal battle. It was happening on the banks of a small stream nearby.
Both sides were lined up facing one another at about 200 paces apart. They were firing arrows and hurling spears at each other. Nobody was injured. Most of the arrows and spears fell short of their mark.
"Someone should show them how to put feathers on their shafts," said Wilson.
Snow Davis explained that these neighbouring tribes were constantly at war with one another, and that this particular fight could well be a payback to right some considered wrong.
After the fray went on for about another 20 minutes one man was wounded by an arrow. A great shout went up from the side that launched it. They promptly turned their backs on the injured side and retired from the scene, yelling and cheering triumphantly. It appeared that was that.
One of the abandoned mission houses was a bonanza to foot-weary soldiers who had been wrenched into teetotalism and savagely rationed of tobacco. Here was a veritable oasis and Cornucopia – brimming with fine home-brewed wines, vintage stuff in fact.
The lush vegetable gardens bore flourishing tobacco plants as well as generous areas of both strawberries, plus grapes for the crushing, replete with a walk-around screwed crush. There was a wine cellar full of strawberry wine and both reds and whites from the grapes; there was a cupboard in the walk–in pantry with a handsome supply of the most perfectly rolled cigars, also jars of shredded leaf, which we surmised, were for pipe smokers.
Furthermore there were large blocks of a black twisted leaf soaked in an aromatic treacle-like concoction. This we knew was trade tobacco. The natives cut it into small pieces and rolled it in newsprint. It was favoured above all other forms of tobacco. It smelt vile to the more pandered taste. Newsprint was considered the best cigarette paper – even better than Bible pages.
It was on this patrol that I was intrigued to discover that these people played several instruments. One was a bamboo version of the Jews’ Harp. It was merely a short section of hollow bamboo with one end cut so that a springy tongue was flicked with a finger to give forth the twanging sound identical with the European counterpart; it was held up to the mouth to produce the various sounds.
I was also given an impromptu performance on a set of Pan-pipes made from differing lengths of bamboo. One simply blew over the open ends in the manner well known to us. In the percussion field the main instrument is the Kundu drum. This is a hollow, elongated, hour-glass shaped, one meter drum, carved from stout timber. It is covered on top with the skin of a lizard, and the flared base is open to emit the sound. It is beaten with the one free hand.
Part of the carving includes a holding handle half-way down the drum. It is a ceremonial drum used at dances (called Sing-Sings). This drum is distinct from the Garamut drum, a large carved-out hollow log that is beaten with a large wooden ram. The Garamut is mainly a signaling device.
In the Highlands, the chief form of communication at the time of our patrol was sending out the talk. Because of the mountainous terrain with lofty peaks, deep valleys and gorges, a villager had only to stand on a prominent feature, cup a hand against their cheek, and bellow his news to the air.
Surprisingly one could listen attentively and hear the message echo across the valleys then realize that not all the echo was in fact just that, but it was the message taken up by a distant soul and repeated. This way the message traveled many kilometers in a matter of minutes.
The other staggering fact was that when the message finally arrived at its destination it was in no way garbled but was as sent originally. This is only possible in tranquil valleys without the hubbub of modern chaotic traffic and metropolis thunder.
It was at this stage that each of us was given permission to employ a young New Guinea servant to act as batman. Such an enlisted helper was called a “monkey master” (spelt ‘manki masta’ in Pidgin). They could barter for you when buying from village people, wash your clothes, act as your interpreter, and advise you on customs and taboos. They also knew all the tracks and pitfalls along the way.
I was fortunate to rapidly learn Pidgin, for my lad, Keringa, and most Highlanders used it.
The mankis were considered part of the cargo line and therefore were entitled to their share of the daily rations and pay. Keringa, who came from Kundiawa, claimed that he could speak most of the various native languages along the way in which we were heading. He could therefore act as my interpreter, as well as being my cook cum valet. He proved to be an asset.
As soon as I hired him he behaved like a regimental Sergeant Major by yelling instructions in his high-pitched voice to the cargo line and bickered and bartered with villagers for fruit and vegetables to add to my army rations. His behaviour was similar to a flea barking at a dog.
When he joined us he was a slim and obviously undernourished child with a matt lustre to his skin, but in spite of this he was one of the most alert human beings that I have ever known.
With him at my side I could never be duped into shooting a chief’s family pig again. Nor could I be overcharged for any local purchase I cared to make. Some of the transactions went something like this:
Keringa would come to me and say in Pidgin “Masta igot wanpela man ikamap ilaik salim wanpela samting long yu.”
My query would be, “Wanem samting emi bringim ikam?”
The event simply says “Master, there is a man who has come, who wants to sell something to you.”
“What is this thing he brings here?”
“He wants you to buy this bow and arrow and Hagen axe made only by him.”
“It is best that you tell him that as a soldier it is not good if I am carrying excess cargo, but I would like to see what he has, yet I am very sorry that I cannot buy.”
With the passing of time Keringa became more vociferous and this worried me.
I noticed that in his haranguing he frequently pointed significantly to my sub-machine gun and I began to suspect that he was threatening them with the possibility that my Thompson gun would demand their compliance. This young fellow was a natural born politician.
It was during this extensive patrol that two others of our group became my close friends. These two were Jack Dellar and Ron Norton. Jack was an ex bantam-weight boxer with a bent nasal bone to prove it.
At my request he set about training me in being able to scientifically belt the daylights out of anyone. I kept walking into his fist so I had to give up my training in fisticuffs or be permanently mangled.
Ron Norton was a soldier of outstanding courage and mental alacrity. He was an intelligent, non-belligerent, likeable fellow. Our friendship began because of ration splitting where three soldiers must band together to enjoy three meals a day.
A tin of bully beef (Army issue of canned corned beef) and a packet of dog biscuits a day (nutritional multi-grain biscuits) was one soldier’s ration. There were twelve biscuits in a packet. That meant there were four biscuits each when split three ways which was a pushover to ration. Jack Dellar was the third person in the rationing.
The bully beef was a less easily shared proposition, being as it was contained in a tapered can. This wedge shaped hunk of precious meat presented problems in slicing into three equal portions. I remember in my boyhood college days when each student took it in turns to cut the bread at dinner-time, arguments exploded. Where one’s slice was considered outrageously thick, all Hell erupted.
To solve our army problem we took it in perilous turns to be the carver.
Our patrol unit separated into small segments and infiltrated in various directions from Kundiawa. It was at that point that I breached regulations concerning my orders for the correct use of my army transceiver and sent out a message in clear language instead of a message in cipher, requesting a recipe for the distillation of ‘Jungle Juice’.
There followed, almost in the time taken to blink, a rebuke from Headquarters in Port Moresby; and a second tirade from Sergeant Bill Twohill.