Fear Drive My Feet by Peter Ryan

suppose. Anyhow, they tell me Jock’s pretty tough, so I don’t suppose
he’d notice the difference!’
    ‘Tough? Boy! Wait till you’ve been round the bush with him for a while – you’ll find
out just what toughness is! Jock’s one of the toughest things on this island.’
    There was some tinned meat and some biscuits in the house, and we set about making
an inventory of our combined stock of food. My own rations were few, but Les had
quite a lot, all specially prepared for his expedition. Oatmeal, dried meat, sugar,
tea, chocolate, were made up in separate cellophane packets, each containing sufficient
for one man for one meal. With the local vegetables and fruit we reckoned we would
have enough food to last four people for about ten days. But our supply of trade
goods was running low, and when the salt and tobacco were exhausted we wouldn’t be
able to buy any more native foods. The greatest drain on our trade goods was the
food that we had to buy for the police and our other boys, who lived almost entirely
on local produce. However, we calculated that we could make the trade goods last
at least three weeks. Also, it was possible that Jock had some with him.
    Next day a small group of men and women from the hamlet below came up to sell us
some of their produce. While we purchased bananas and sweet potatoes they chattered
freely among themselves in their own language. We couldn’t understand what they were
saying, of course, but two words of pidgin kept recurring – sheep-sheep and bulmacow,
meaning sheep and cattle. We pricked up our ears.
    ‘Wonem this-fella sheep-sheep now bulmacow?’ asked Les.
    ‘Master, some-fella sheep-sheep now bulmacow ’e stop long place belong mission,’
replied one of the men.
    ‘Fresh meat!’ Les and I exclaimed at once.
    Taking Kari with me, I set off almost at once for Boana Mission, which lay on the
far side of the valley of the Bunzok River, a couple of hours’ walk away. If we could
find a beast to kill for meat we would not only have the rare pleasure of eating
some fresh grilled chops or steak but would be able to spin out our rather meagre
tinned rations.
    Through the hot sunshine we followed the winding track down into the valley of the
Bunzok to Dzendzen village. As we passed between the grass houses and halted in the
clear space in the centre of the village, I felt that the people received us with
anything but enthusiasm. They stood glowering sullenly on the outskirts, making no effort to approach us. However, we managed to persuade three or four of them to come
to Boana and help us bring back the meat we hoped to get.
    A few minutes’ walk from Dzendzen we had to cross the Bunzok, which, like all rivers
in these mountains, was a foaming torrent that thundered through a course strewn
with enormous boulders. The bridge consisted of a huge tree felled across the stream,
the top roughly flattened with an adze. The natives told us that the missionary used
to ride his horse over this log without dismounting.
    The climb up the far side of the valley was steep, and we paused half-way, in a small
garden, while the boys cut lengths of sugar-cane for us all. It was wonderfully refreshing
stuff, and we eagerly sucked the cool, sugary juice, spitting out the coarse, tough
pith.
    Before the war Boana Mission had been a little community on its own. There were about
a score of small kunai native dwellings, several very large and lofty thatched buildings
made of native materials – these were the school and church buildings – and the European
dwellings, the two iron-roofed houses that Les and I had glimpsed from Gain. One
consisted of only a couple of rooms, while the other was a typical mission building
– rectangular and very spacious, surrounded entirely by a wide veranda. The country
immediately about the settlement was open and undulating, and all around dark-forested
mountains rose up. There were some citrus-trees, an orchard, a little coffee, and
the overgrown remains