The Rich Girl,The Poor Girl, The Coastwatcher And Me: Anecdotes And Reminiscences From The Collected Papers Of Justin Bornmann

By Ray Johnston

Is a new start too much to hope for when your dreams turn to ashes? A jaded historian obsessed with recording the wartime exploits of an almost forgotten Special Forces officer known as The Coastwatcher travels to the tropical island where the man served and meets a glamorous young vacationing stockbroker thirty years his junior. At first she keeps him at arm’s length, but when tragedy draws them together they begin a journey together through disaster, disfigurement and conflict, which they survive with the help of an elegant lady who was once a refugee on the island, and an assortment of unique individuals, each with the fortunate knack of turning up just at the right time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Johnston
• Release date: Apr 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310434945

Ray Johnston

Surf, sand and sun are in the blood of almost every boy and girl raised on Sydney’s northern beaches. Ray Johnston is no exception and one of his treasured memories goes to prove it. One sunny day on assignment in northeastern China he found himself cracking waves at Qingdao Beach: the only person in the water - with hundreds of fully-clad, well-shod tourists watching from the sand. Nowadays Ray lives with his family in Canberra, over a hundred kilometers from the sea; but be assured, when he’s not drafting a novel or travelling overseas, he’s planning a trip to the beach. Ray’s first novel, White Ghosts Black Shadows was published in 2010. Before that he published technical works in linguistics and texts for EFL students, having cut his teeth as an author and publisher producing books in indigenous languages in Papua New Guinea. Ray holds master's degrees in educational psychology and organisational psychology and a PhD in linguistics. He is an honorary lecturer in the School of Culture, History and Language at the Australian National University an honorary English teacher at the ANU college, an associate of the Centre of Excellence for the Dynamics of Language at ANU, an associate member of SIL-PNG and a consultant quality assurance lexicographer on the Oxford University Press Tok Pisin-English Dictionary project Read Ray’s Smashwords Interview at https://www.smashwords.com/interview/Rayjohnston

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Appreciation

The Nakanai people of New Britain showed me by example how to live an uncluttered life and how to face discomfort and adversity with cheerfulness.

I especially thank the people of Karapi village and Toa hamlet, my in-laws of the Kevemumuki clan, brothers and sisters of the Kea clan and friends of the Kabulubulu and other clans, for their friendship over many years.

To teachers, business people, missionaries, aid workers and officials I met in settlements, villages and towns from Rabaul to Cape Gloucester, I offer my thanks for warm welcomes, cold drinks, rides to airstrips and other acts of kindness.

I thank the trial readers, manuscript evaluators and copy editors who saw something worthwhile in earlier versions of this work and offered encouragement as I traversed the arduous path of drafting, revising, editing and polishing.

Isabella, thank you for taking care of me during a year of chemotherapy that saw many a page of poor drafting, and for standing with me through heart surgery, the complications of which almost brought this project to a premature end. And thank you, Tom, for your patience.

Acknowledgements and sources are listed at the end of the book.

Glossary of Tokpisin (Pidgin) and slang words

Arse: Australian slang for the buttocks; butt, ass (Tokpisin as).

Balus: airplane, aeroplane.

Birua: enemy.

Feller: fellow: phonetic rendering of colloquial Australian pronunciation.

Fellow: a man; any man; guy, dude, bloke.

Kanaka: an unsophisticated indigenous person; a pejorative term.

Kunai: high-growing tropical savanna species of grass (Imperata Cylindrica).

Kwila: a tall, strong tropical hardwood tree (Intsia species).

Laplap: a cloth wound around the waist.

Loin cloth: a cloth passed between the legs and tied off around the waist.

Luluai: in colonial New Guinea, a local person appointed to lead a local area.

Masta: a Caucasian man

Misis: a Caucasian woman

Netip: an indigenous person. English ‘native.’

Pasta: pastor.

PNG: Papua New Guinea.

Raskol: a gang member; hoodlum.

Tokpisin: a creolized trade language widely used in PNG; often called ‘Pidgin.’

Tultul: in colonial New Guinea, a local person appointed as registrar of a village.

Maps

Burundi and Rwanda

The island of New Britain

Operation Little Bull

Burundi and Rwanda

The island of New Britain

Operation Little Bull

The characters

Principals

The rich girl, stockbroker Ruth Feingold

The coastwatcher, Rex Davidson who led Operation Little Bull

The poor girl, refugee Miriam Lazar who became Rex’s lover

The narrator, Justin Bornmann, a disillusioned man

2000 – 2009

Ruth’s lover in New Britain, Kazuo Hashimoto, a forester

Ruth’s personal assistant in Africa, Michel Twaglimana

Ruth’s savior in Africa, the bushman Tuga Bububu Uru

1942 – 1945

Rex’s allies: Samo Barilae, leader North Coast; Comenius Telakul, leader South Coast

Rex’s military comrades: Lt. John Loving, Sgt. Jim Brothers and Lt. Paul Bondman

Rex’s local comrades: Sgt-Major Pita ‘Rocky’ Kepas, Sgt. Maekel Pasila and their squads

Rex’s American visitor: USAAF reconnaissance pilot, Breeze Champion

Rex’s enemies: Lt.-Cdr Kasumi Hashimoto, Major Takashi Yamashiro, Cpl Iudas Birua

Before the beginning

Le jeu n'en vaut pas la chandelle.

The game is not worth a candle.

I’ve had a chronic condition from birth. I’m male.

Mrs. Bornmann, you have a son, the doctor said, and placed me in my mother’s arms; then, the way she tells it, she said, Hello, Justin, and I opened my eyes.

Yes, a baby of the boy variety I was, my stiff little penis and swollen red scrotum in plain sight, announcing the fact, testifying to it, shouting it to the world; appendages which in years to come would complicate and disrupt the way I look at love, this being an observation so likely to lead appendaged readers to nod their heads and readers not so appendaged to shake theirs, that I feel compelled to move on.

But first, let me ask you about destiny. I didn’t always believe in it, but the rich girl, the poor girl and the coastwatcher changed that. They were everything I’m not: the rich girl, bold, attractive and successful; the poor girl, elegant, gentle and uncomplicated; and the coastwatcher, a man with a purpose, a man with nerves of steel.

Before the beginning is the turn of the millennium: before Twitter, before Facebook, before the iPhone; bold, brash years, in which nine and eleven are still just a couple of numbers.

In these heady, confident times, I abandon the dried out husks of career and marriage and fly to Rabaul on the island of New Britain, to track down stories about a man who risked his life behind enemy lines half a century before, the coastwatcher Rex Davidson.

The plane lifts off and the pilot tilts the nose skyward.

Getting there’s the easy part, I tell myself.

I steady my nerves flicking through the pages of my notebook.

In the early 1940s, I’ve written in some library somewhere, as the storm clouds of war gathered over the Pacific, Australia set up a network of behind-the-lines observers in the islands to her North, charged with the task of calling in information about the enemy on a secret radio frequency. These lone wolves were called coastwatchers.

The homework’s done. This trip’s not a wild goose chase.

From 1942, my handwriting tells me, the Coastwatchers served under the command of the Allied Intelligence Bureau.

My own notes, ferkraissake. Riveting.

A trolley rattles. I smell coffee, look up and catch the smile of the flight attendant. For a moment hopes are high, but breakfast is nothing more than lukewarm beverage and two dry cookies in a cellophane packet. I gulp my coffee and return to my papers. In a copy of an old debriefing report, I see a note inked in the margin god knows when by heaven knows that says, simply, Rex Davidson: Coastwatcher par excellence.

The wheels bump onto the tarmac and I remember how lonely I am. Traveling is the easy part. Being where you’re going is something else altogether.

It’s my first night in town, and I’m alone in the lounge of the Community Hostel wondering where my life is going.

Ruth, the rich girl in this story, is here on vacation. I don’t know her name. I’ve only just seen her for the first time; but to a man alone in a bar at the end of the world she’s water in a desert.

Kismet? Destiny? With 20-20 hindsight, I tell you this: Had I not been obsessed with the coastwatcher, Rex Davidson, I’d never have met Ruth. And had it not been for me telling her about the coastwatcher, she wouldn’t have known who Miriam was when they met, and that would have been too bad; because, years before, Rex had rescued Miriam when she was just a poor refugee on the run, and she’s the poor girl in the story. And if Ruth hadn’t gone trekking with Hashi, a handsome Japanese forester, she would never have met Miriam in the first place.

Right away things get complicated. Ruth has eyes only for Hashi, and I, being much older, have to be content to be her admirer and cheerleader. That’s fact one. Fact two is that Hashi is on a pilgrimage to follow the path of his grandfather’s wartime patrols into the interior.

I stumble across fact 3 when Hashi and I compare notes and realize that the man his grandfather hunted down in the mountains is none other than the coastwatcher, Rex Davidson.

Then there’s the future.

I’m at my gate, waiting for the mailman.

Every second year my friend Ruth sends me her Rouge G de Guerlain lipstick compact on the last day of June and I post it back to her on the same day the following year. It’s an innocent ritual she dreamed up to remind us of good times.

But this year I’ve waited in vain.

I hear a motorcycle brake, pause and move off again.

Maybe today.

The mailman props at my gate and makes a show of riffing through a bundle of letters.

Oh God. Nothing. Again.

Justin Bornmann? he says, all bright and breezy.

Forget the shtick, you’re only making things worse.

I’ll bring a few beers over after work, he says, and the man’s as good as his word, because that evening he turns up with a couple of friends and two cartons of beer. I’m pleased, because it’s months since I’ve had company, so I fire up the grill and throw on some steaks.

When we’re three sheets to the wind it seems a good idea to tell the story of Ruth Feingold, and there being no objections, I launch in.

My monologue finally runs its course and silence fills the damp evening air. The guests drain their glasses, put on their jackets and leave, and as their laughter recedes into the night I go back to the dishes and empty bottles to do the least that can be done before morning.

I heave a bag of empties out, totter bleary-eyed to my bed, throw myself down and fall into a fitful sleep that is little more than an eerie contracting of my mind. Unbidden, specters of deeds left undone, opportunities lost, and ends left untied parade in my head.

But good can come of such small crucifixions. As I lie alone in the translucent light of the streetlamp through the curtain, the story of my friend, the stockbroker who reinvented herself as an aid worker, begins to flow.

They say men love with their eyes. And even now my heart still misses a beat when I see a photo of her or conjure her image in my mind.

I hear her whisper words that changed me.

I feel myself falling.

She’s gifted, unique. And you can take it from one who has had the ecstatic, mind-blowing pleasure—she’s very good at what she does.

She can do many things, but above all else, with much grace and little mercy, she will dispel your delusions.

Take me for instance. I was the worst of fools: a man with no inkling of his limitations. Shackled by small ambitions, blinded by pride, I believed only in what I could see, hear and touch.

It was Ruth who changed me.

The words compose themselves into syntactic sense. I rub my eyes, grab my notebook and begin to write.

I remember the moment I broke through the veils.

Then, unbidden, a voice: Let it flow.

My notepad stares at me, sweat-dampened.

I keep writing. Ruth and I were the closest of friends and had I been thirty years younger I’d have asked her to be my lover. That’s how close.

Go on.

As a young woman, bold and beautiful, Ruth was a gift to journalists. They claimed her as their own, and in the whole tawdry process the truth was lost.

That’s just the rich girl’s story, says the muse, the piece of the puzzle you stumbled onto like an ape finding an opal. What about the other pieces: the story of the poor girl, Miriam; and the stories of Rex behind the lines?

No one is there, so I speak to the wall. Bed, dresser, picture, mirror, window, pillow, pen, notebook, night lamp ... present, past and future … sort of; a beginning, a middle, an end … kind of; my collected papers … thank God. And more points of view than I can poke a stick at. It’s enough.

I nestle into the quilt, but there’s a final word.

It’s their story, says the voice. Let them tell it.

Defining Moments

Elathon ... angelous.

Angels ... unawares.

Pros Hebraious xiii:2

Chapter one

Ruth

You said to tell it all and tell it my way, Justin. Well, this is the first installment.

Name: Ruth Feingold; born New York, 1972.

Profession: stockbroker.

Most significant moment: the fiery blast at B24.

Experience: living with 30% of my body scarred.

Goal: to deal with it and start over.

Here’s the thing: I had a penthouse in Manhattan; now I live in a clay-brick house in Burundi; and the journey from New York to Africa is my story.

The Armani-suited man standing by the stairs was intent upon waylaying me and I wasn’t thinking about how to avoid him. Too tall. Too well dressed. Too much the kind of guy a girl wants to meet. So I looked at the wall and kept walking. Adonis, I murmured closing fast, for you and no one else will I be late for class.

Adonis extended his hand. Ms. Feingold? he asked, and encouraged by the merest, hint of a nod, he continued. "My name is Wilbur Snook and I represent one of the top-ranked brokerage firms in New York.

Change your name, Adonis. Clint, Todd, Brad … anything but Wilbur … anything but Snook.

It was too fast, too unexpected. I’m a sharp girl, but I have my moments and this was one. The two sides of my brain fell into discussion and I almost missed what came next.

I’ve come to offer you a place in our Associates program, Wilbur said, holding up and then letting fall loose the pages of a concertina-folded brochure, the trailing ends of which fluttered like a victory ensign as Wilbur’s confident smile reassured me this was my lucky day.

Wilbur and his brochure must have convinced me, for following lunch with him that day and exams the following week, I turned up on the first Monday of the third week of June at corporate headquarters, along with a handful of similarly breathless, wide-eyed investment tyros, and embarked on an exhausting training program at the end of which I was found to have the stamina, the smarts, the education, the looks and the pizzazz to make the cut.

From day one I put on a mask. I adopted the persona of a polite, reasonable, courteously urgent team player, and succeeded in fooling everyone, including myself; but beneath the veneer of respectability, I cared about nothing other than satisfying my own desires and pursuing my own dreams.

It worked well, and in less than seven years I became the fastest-rising young female star on Wall Street, lit up by the adulation of business and social journalists and all too willing to believe the exaggerations and half-truths they wrote about me.

One morning in the Spring of ’99, however, I shut down. Throbbing temples and aching muscles joined voices demanding I stay in bed, but since the trading bell was due to ring in less than two hours, I staggered to the kitchen, where in the space of half a minute I succeeded in frustrating and surprising myself in equal measure by dropping a glass of juice that smashed down on the tiled floor, then dropping a full pot of hot coffee and scalding my ankles.

In the shower I could hardly hold the soap and when I was done my skin felt clammy. On the way to work everything looked blurry, and by the time I arrived I was seeing double. I went up to the office via the service elevator and made my way, head down, past the storeroom to my workstation.

Slumped at my desk, I surveyed my little world: a computer, a mouse, some papers, a few photos stuck up with colored pins and an unwashed coffee cup. I cast a doleful look at the three handsets on my desk. Along with my cell phone they were my weapons of war, but today they filled me with fear, for I was certain that were two to ring at once I would freeze, and if three I’d lose my mind.

My colleagues were preparing for another frenetic day. The aroma of hot butter drifted across the room and I remembered this was slam dunk day. For the first hour of trading anyone who posted a deal would lob a handful of popcorn through a basketball hoop. Usually I’d kick off my shoes and tread popcorn into the carpet with the rest of them. But not today.

I retreated to the ladies’ room.

You need a break, I told myself. No more than three weeks. People may get nosy.

I wondered what my colleagues would say. They spent weekends para-skiing, para-gliding or diving in Colorado, the Bahamas or Florida But I never had anything to talk about except work.

I stepped over to the mirror to freshen up.

You need somewhere a thousand miles away from five-star clichés, the person in the mirror said. You have a date with Google.

A few key strokes and there it was, shimmering green and blue on the screen, the place in the Pacific I wanted to be, diving on the tropical reefs of Talasea on the island of New Britain. No frills. The banner said. Just a seaside shack, coconuts, bananas and all the seafood you can eat.

Okay, a two-star cliché that trumps all the five-star same-o vacation places I’ve yawned my way through hearing about from my co-workers suits just fine, I mused and kept reading.

Did we mention the four thousand species of coral, and the reefs to die for? the center spread trumpeted.

That clinched it.

In three days I was on my way.

The cab to the airport smelt of bagels and coffee. Dad was in the front and Mom and I were in the back. As we weaved through the traffic I stared blankly out the window.

From Drop-off to Check-in was a long walk through a throng of people. Oy vey, Dad said. This you do to relax?

At Security my mother kissed me and turned away. My daughter trades New York for the jungle, she announced to a passer-by, then lapsed silent.

I gave Dad a hug and went through for inspection. When I turned for a final wave I saw my mother standing by the gate, her arms raised in rabbinical pose. So much for a graduate degree, she called. The guard with the metal detector frowned and just a few paces to Mom’s left a thick-set man in stout boots raised a hand to the