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  PETER RYAN was born at home in Glen Iris, Melbourne, in 1923. His parents worked at the recently created Repatriation Commission. Ryan attended Malvern Grammar with the aid of scholarships and, after matriculating, was a clerk at Commonwealth Railways and the Crown Law Department.

  In 1941 he enlisted voluntarily in the army, completed Basic Training and was sent on active service to Port Moresby with an Anti-Aircraft Searchlight Company, part of Moresby’s base defences. For his intelligence work he received the Military Medal and was mentioned in dispatches.

  After returning to Australia, Ryan taught at Duntroon and joined the Directorate of Research and Civil Affairs, then was a labourer in a bush sawmill. He gained a degree in history while managing a publishing firm. After working for a decade in advertising and public relations, he turned to journalism.

  Fear Drive My Feet, Ryan’s acclaimed account of his wartime service, was published in 1959 and has mostly been in print ever since. Sir Edward ‘Weary’ Dunlop commended it in a foreword to the 1992 edition.

  In 1962 Ryan was appointed director of Melbourne University Press, a position he held until 1988. For the following fifteen years he was secretary to the Supreme Court of Victoria’s Board of Examiners.

  Ryan was a long-time Age contributor and since 1994 has written a monthly column for Quadrant. His other books include Brief Lives (2004) and a memoir, Final Proof (2010).

  Peter Ryan and his wife, Davey, live in Melbourne.

  PETER PIERCE is adjunct research professor in the School of Journalism, Australian and Indigenous Studies at Monash University. He is the editor of The Cambridge History of Australian Literature, the co-editor of Vietnam Days: Australia and the Impact of Vietnam and Clubbing of the Gunfire: 101 Australian War Poems, and the author of The Country of Lost Children: An Australian Anxiety and Australian Melodramas: Thomas Keneally’s Fiction. His reviews appear regularly in Australian newspapers.

  ALSO BY PETER RYAN

  Encyclopaedia of Papua and New Guinea (editor)

  Black Bonanza: A Landslide of Gold

  Lines of Fire: Manning Clark and Other Writings

  Brief Lives

  Final Proof: Memoirs of a Publisher

  It Strikes Me: Collected Essays 1994–2010

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  Copyright © Peter Ryan 2001

  Introduction copyright © Peter Pierce 2015

  The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  First published by Angus & Robertson 1959

  This edition published by The Text Publishing Company 2015

  Cover design by WH Chong

  Original page design by Duffy & Snellgrove

  Primary print ISBN: 9781925240054

  Ebook ISBN: 9781925095876

  Author: Ryan, Peter, 1923–

  Title: Fear drive my feet / by Peter Ryan ; introduced by Peter Pierce

  Series: Text classics.

  Dewey Number: 940.548194

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  Across the River; Into the Mountains by Peter Pierce

  Fear Drive My Feet

  Across the River; Into the Mountains by Peter Pierce

  AUSTRALIA’S campaigns in New Guinea from 1942 to 1945, which eventually defeated the Japanese, generated remarkable poems by the RAAF pilot David Campbell—‘Men in Green’, ‘Pedrina’—and some of Kenneth Slessor’s most vivid war correspondence (or what survived his bitter battles with censors). James McAuley, who served there, would experience religious conversion and write of this when he returned after the war. A clutch of novels—tales of Japs and the Jungle, sometimes infected by racial animus—were written by veterans. The best known of these used to be T. A. G. Hungerford’s The Ridge and the River (1952), The Last Blue Sea (1959) by ‘David Forrest’ and, from the same year, Norman Bartlett’s Island Victory. John Hepworth’s novel The Long Green Shore emerged in 1995, after decades of lying in wait. Yet the most distinguished and enduring of all the writing about this war that took place so close to Australia was the youthful memoir—completed when the author was twenty-one, and dealing with events of a couple of years earlier—Fear Drive My Feet.

  As Peter Ryan recounts in the Preface to the 2001 edition, his book was written ‘when the travels of 1942 and 1943 were like the day before yesterday’. Repatriated from New Guinea, he had what he called ‘a soft job’ teaching Tok Pisin, the pidgin English used in New Guinea, to cadet patrol officers. In the unadorned, compelling style that emerged fully formed in Fear Drive My Feet, Ryan reflected that ‘very few soldiers of eighteen would have been sent out alone and untrained to operate for months as best they could behind Japanese lines; that few indeed would have passed their nineteenth and twentieth birthdays engaged in such a pursuit.’ He wondered, with no affected modesty, ‘Might this be an interesting topic?’

  Public judgment, emphatically in agreement, had to wait until Ida Leeson, the former Mitchell Librarian and a guest of Ryan’s in 1958, read the manuscript without his knowledge. Ten days later, Angus & Robertson agreed to publish a book that Leeson and the firm’s esteemed editor, Beatrice Davis, surely guessed would become a classic of Australian literature of war. It was published the following year.

  In his preface, Ryan recalls thinking during his time in New Guinea of how—if he survived exhaustion, solitude, exposure, disease, mortal peril—he would never travel anywhere again. Hunted for a week by Japanese soldiers with tracker dogs, he ‘sought refuge by climbing a stupendous dry cascade of huge boulders, as it ascended ever higher up a mountainside’. For weeks at a stretch, he would try to sleep ‘with the lively expectation of being dead by dawn’. Thus it was, he declared at seventy-seven, ‘I have never been to England, Europe or America, and have never wanted to go.’ However, since the end of the war he has returned twenty-eight times to the country of his exciting and enervating trials; edited and published the Encyclopaedia of Papua and New Guinea (1972), while he was director of Melbourne University Press; and written Black Bonanza (1991), an account of the Mount Kare gold rush; besides wisely and humorously counselling many travellers to Australia’s nearest, if scantly known, neighbour.

  Fear Drive My Feet is a strange and striking account of an education, a non-fiction Bildungsroman. For Ryan, this does not involve the distractions of schooling or fi
rst love, a literal or sentimental education, but service with Kanga Force, whose ‘fantastic campaign of patrolling and harassing the enemy from behind both Lae and Salamaua’ he salutes. The courageous motley band that he joins was formed in April 1942, when the New Guinea Volunteer Rifles were supplemented by Independent Companies of the Australian Imperial Force. Its objective is to screen Japanese movements west across New Guinea. Reconnaissance has to be as close (and hence as dangerous) as possible. In one of the pivotal moments of his narrative, the young Warrant Officer Ryan crosses the Markham River and begins his adventures in ‘the savage country of the Lae–Salamaua area’. To the east are thousands of Japanese troops; to the north, the Saruwaged Mountains, ‘so high that you can’t see the tops for clouds’. And here he is, ‘sent wandering through the jungles of the largest island on earth with one partly trained police recruit’.

  Yet he is not altogether unprepared. In the Boy Scouts he had been an enthusiastic participant in bushcraft, map-reading, prismatic-compass work, first aid (particularly wound dressing) and hygiene. Nor is he without some knowledge of New Guinea. Ryan’s father, Ted, fought there in the Great War, taking part in the capture of Rabaul and rising to lieutenant in the military government of Australia’s new ex-German territories. He may have settled there for good, except that severe malaria forced his return to Australia. The family home in Glen Iris, in Melbourne’s eastern suburbs, was full of New Guinea artefacts, mementoes and photographs. Moreover, Ryan’s father taught him to speak Tok Pisin, a deal of which he remembered when his assignment began and its use was essential.

  Vital to his operations, intelligence gathering and survival is sustaining bonds with not only those natives employed to assist him (for whom he holds deep respect and affection) but the people of remote villages and perhaps doubtful loyalty, on whom he depends for supplies. In exchange for fresh food, Ryan can offer ‘Trade tobacco, sheets of newspapers [for rolling cigarettes], coarse salt, and New Guinea shilling-pieces! Strange currency, I thought.’ The authors of The Oxford Companion to Australian Military History wryly agree. The New Guinea campaign, they write, was ‘fought on a logistic shoestring’. Burdened with his miscellaneous cargo (even that begrudged by the ‘base bludgers’ away from the front line, whom he has cause to execrate), Ryan heads north: ‘In this line of mountains, like gates in a wall, were the dark gashes of the valleys of the three main tributary streams on the north side of the Markham—the Leron, the Irumu, and the Erap.’ This is a visceral but also an expressionistic journey—into a landscape of terror and exhilaration.

  Ryan moves through country rocked by earth tremors, roamed by shit-eating pigs, within earshot of Allied bombs falling on the Japanese base at Lae, though it is days’ trek distant. His little party sometimes presses on through deep fog: ‘it was unnerving to walk into the valley as the unseen stream roared below, or to make what seemed to be an endless ascent into space.’ All the time, as the tension steadily increases, the enemy remains unseen, if present in rumour. Are they sticking to the coast or ‘now warily extending patrols up the valleys’?

  In the climactic sequence of Fear Drive My Feet, Ryan is sent back into action in the company of Captain Les Howlett, an experienced New Guinea patrol officer. Once again the Markham has to be traversed: ‘All the hazards of a sea voyage were to be had in a trip across this incredible stream—reefs, islands, currents, waves, and sand-banks—any one of which might have wrecked us.’ This ordeal convinces Ryan that the Markham is the very ‘boundary of creation’.

  Now there are clear signs of a Japanese presence and native collaboration: a new rest-house has been built, and bridges constructed across streams. It seems to Ryan that the villagers ‘were concealing what they knew: either lying to us or keeping silent’. He discovers that the Japanese know of the hazardous trip that he made to seek information from Chinese prisoners outside Lae, and there is now a price on his head, dead or alive—two cases of meat and five Australian pounds. This is mentioned stoically, but in good humour.

  Ryan’s youthful spirit is tested relentlessly: he has to judge whom to trust, what path to follow, where danger might lie. Few narratives of growing up involve ordeals so arduous, whether monotonous or deadly. Ryan knows the measure of what is taken from him: ‘All sense of adventure and excitement had long since vanished from this patrol, leaving behind an empty flatness that was only one degree removed from despair.’

  Plagued by ‘headaches, faintness, giddiness and attacks of nose-bleeding’, Ryan and Howlett return over the mountains to the village of Chivasing, where they are betrayed by the natives and ambushed by the Japanese. Howlett is shot; Ryan survives by burying himself ‘deep in the mud of a place where the pigs used to wallow, with only my nose showing’. He can hear the Japanese calling out to each other,

  and their feet sucking and squelching in the mud as they searched. I could not see, so I did not know exactly how close they were, but I could feel in my ears the pressure of their feet as they squeezed through the mud. It occurred to me that this was probably an occasion on which one might pray, and indeed was about to start a prayer. Then something stopped me. I said to myself so fiercely that I seemed to be shouting under the mud, ‘To Hell with God! If I get out of this bloody mess, I’ll do it by myself!’

  Later, at the Bulolo base, Ryan is berated by a stock figure of military bureaucracy: ‘Don’t you realise it’s a crime in the Army to lose your pay book?’ While a battle is fought nearby, Ryan recuperates before being flown to the coast, over ‘the land which had soaked up the sweat of two years’. He reflects on man’s bravery, on patience and endurance, and hopes it will also be learned that ‘wars and calamities of nature are not the only occasions when such qualities are needed’.

  The book concludes with this prose of noble plainness, but its story and the manner of its telling have resonated for more than fifty years. Richly realised are aims modestly stated: the depiction of war, but ‘on the smallest possible scale’, and ‘what happened to one man—what he did, and how he felt about it’. Fear Drive My Feet is informed by Ryan’s admiration for the Roman emperor and philosopher Marcus Aurelius, to whose counsel for the control of fear, ‘cease to be whirled around’, he paid special notice when under aerial bombardment.

  The book has two telling epigraphs. One is Erasmus’s remark that ‘in the Military Service, there is a busy kind of Time-Wasting.’ This speaks to the long periods of inaction that the book describes—waiting in lonely bush camps to go into action, recovering from malaria and the broken bones caused by falls, at the mercy of intermittent orders and supplies. The second epigraph is from Job, 18.11: ‘Terrors shall make him afraid on every side, and shall drive him to his feet.’ The facing and surmounting of those terrors, mental and physical, is the matter of Peter Ryan’s book—the finest Australian memoir of war.

  Fear Drive My Feet

  PREFACE

  I WROTE THIS book at the age of twenty-one, when the travels of 1942 and 1943 were like the day before yesterday. Any small uncertainty – a precise date, the name of a village headman – could be settled from dog-eared notebooks, or the tattered sheets of old patrol reports. Flicked over in pursuit of some such bald fact, these crumbling documents gave off the musty smell of paper which had begun its decay in the mildews of the tropics. Many years passed before I understood: this haunting odour, in silent eloquence, had been speaking to me just as clearly as the written sentences
now fading on the pages.Truly, a trace of Proust lurks in the least of us.

  During 1944 and 1945 I had a soft job in an Army school in the grounds of the Royal Military College, Duntroon, teaching New Guinea pidgin English (Tok Pisin) to cadet patrol officers. Those nights not spent in the mild dissipations of the Mess were for reading or writing in one’s room – a narrow cell furnished with a bed, a table and a chair, all of monastic austerity. My window opened outwards towards Mount Pleasant where, just a hundred yards away, was the tomb of General Bridges, killed on Gallipoli as commander of our first A.I.F. Now he lay there at peace, beneath his immense bronze funerary sword.

  The notion of actually writing a book seemed preposterous, when it first crossed my mind one frosty night. I had left school at sixteen for a dull job in the Victorian public service, from which I enlisted shortly before Japan entered the war in late 1941. What possible qualification had I for authorship?

  At school, my English and History master, Gordon Connell, had been a teacher of genius. (He had, a few years earlier, taught our famous architect and writer, Robin Boyd.) From ‘Cactus’ Connell I had learnt, at least, not even to start writing unless there was something interesting to say; and if there was, to say it simply. He also infected me with (no one has ever put it better than Gibbon) ‘that early and invincible love of reading which I would not exchange for the treasure of India’.

  It struck me that very few soldiers of eighteen would have been sent out alone and untrained to operate for months as best they could behind Japanese lines; that few indeed would have passed their nineteenth and twentieth birthdays engaged in such a pursuit. Might this be an interesting topic?

  In the quiet nights of Canberra, a small and rather nervous manuscript built up. The hard decisions for the greenhorn author were what to leave out, for a great deal had happened besides the story told in the pages of this book: the sinking in Port Moresby harbour of the Macdhui, the ship which carried me from Australia; numberless enemy aerial bombardments; the later escape, by a matter of minutes, from sinking by a Japanese submarine in the Gulf of Papua; the taxing walk right across New Guinea over the notorious Bulldog Track; running supply lines of native carriers to our troops operating behind Salamaua. This was all too much for my untried skill to tackle, and all too much for the patience of readers. I decided to focus on a series of intelligence patrols all carried out in the general region of the Markham River, which enters the sea near the then great Japanese base at Lae.