Attack on the Black Cat Track. Max Carmichael

      Foreword

      When I met the trekkers in Port Moresby the day after their ordeal on the Black Cat Track, they were still trying to comprehend what they had experienced. I was struck by their calmness, outwardly at least, and any concern they had for their own injuries was dwarfed by concern for the welfare of the Papua New Guinean porters.

      As I spoke with each of the trekkers, it was evident they had been well prepared for the trek, with many of them having had previous experience in Papua New Guinea, including trekking the Kokoda Track. They impressed me as a group of remarkably hardy people.

      This book is a tale of tragedy — the death of three Papua New Guinean porters and enduring disability for many of the other porters. It is also a tale of heroism — shown by Christy King, the trekkers and porters, as well as their rescuers.

      And it tells a story of friendship and community — of the generosity of those in Australia and Papua New Guinea who have helped to support the injured porters and the families of the deceased porters.

      The history shared by Australia and Papua New Guinea is the foundation for the unique and strong bonds between our two countries today. The struggles, sacrifice and heroism on the Black Cat Trail during World War II deserve to be remembered.

      I would like to thank the Consular staff at the Australian High Commission in Port Moresby, who facilitated the transit of the trekkers in Port Moresby and the contact with families via the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade in Canberra. Credit also goes to the Qantas staff in Port Moresby, led by Rick Sawicki, who arranged with great efficiency the homeward flights for the trekkers.

      Deborah Stokes

      Australian High Commissioner to Papua New Guinea 2013–15

      Prologue

      Rain cascaded onto the fabric of the one-man tent. Within the dubious comfort of its folds, Zoltan Maklary wriggled contentedly into a more comfortable position on his sleeping mat, and reflected on the achievements of the day. He, with seven other trekkers, their tour leader and nineteen porters, had just completed the first day of a six-day trek along Papua New Guinea’s notorious Black Cat Track. The trek was an adventure Zoltan knew would take him well outside of his comfort zone. He freely admitted to a certain amount of self-doubt as to his ability to cope with the tough conditions for which the track was famed. However, the worst thing he had encountered so far had been the leeches. He gave an involuntary shudder as he recalled ridding himself of those many primeval creatures that had, vampire-like, attached themselves to his body. Yet in spite of these and various other discomforts, he had come through the first day’s trek pretty well, and felt a great sense of achievement.

      This was not to suggest that the trek had not been physically demanding, particularly once they had entered the jungle. It had indeed been tough but nothing, he was pleased to note — neither rain, a river crossing, the steep slopes, or the distance — had been beyond his ability to cope. He reflected briefly on the strengths and skills of the porters, who had carried most of the equipment and supplies required for the trek, and pondered for a moment if he would have done quite so well had he carried a similar load. He was also acutely aware that some seventy years earlier, young Australian and Japanese soldiers not only carried heavy loads across this same terrain, but were engaged in a bloody battle to the death. It was, he concluded, a privilege to live in a time of peace and be able to employ others to carry the load so that he was free to enjoy himself.

      In fact, the whole trekking group were buoyed up by their progress that day, and there had even been talk of pushing further along the Track while the light held. However, their guide had assured them that the next day would be much tougher and that they should rest. So while some of the trekkers chose to take refuge from the rain and drink coffee under the porters’ shelter, Zoltan had retired to his tent early.

      He could hear occasional bursts of laughter from the others, and the clash of pots and pans as the porters prepared the evening meal. It seemed sleep in the short-term was going to be difficult to achieve. Zoltan reached into his backpack, drew out his iPod, and set its earphones in place. A little bit of technology in the jungle. He lay back on his bed, and the noise beyond his tent receded into the background as he lost himself in music.

      Coldplay’s soothing and inviting words of ‘Death and All His Friends’ eased their way through the earphones, the song taking him to another place. He began to relax.

      All winter we got carried

      Away over on the roof tops, let’s get married

      All summer we just hurried1

      The rain eased, but Zoltan hardly noticed and remained engrossed in the song.

      So come over, just be patient and don’t worry

      So come over, just be patient and don’t worry

      So come over, just be patient and don’t worry

      And don’t worry2

      The sound of yelling, half heard, penetrated the place to where he had drifted, arousing his slight interest, but he only assumed the porters were playing football.

      No I don’t want a battle from beginning to end

      I don’t want a cycle of recycled revenge

      I don’t want to follow death and all of his friends

      No I don’t want a battle from beginning to end

      I don’t want a cycle of recycled revenge

      I don’t want to follow death and all of his friends3

      The shouting became louder and more urgent. Zoltan’s interest in the music waned and he wondered if perhaps he was missing