Muted conversation on the bow drew Kaboro’s attention. Singkepe and his corporal were sharing a cigarette. The other sentries were scanning the riverbanks. It had been unnaturally quiet since the accident. That no locals had been sighted suggested trouble was indeed brewing, and Kaboro was counting down the hours to high tide.

A door banged loudly and Kaboro flinched. Ensign Faiwalati came into view, carrying a tray of steaming coffees. The genial young cook distributed them to the grateful soldiers and Frank Douglas. Kaboro was still smarting from their exchange last night. Douglas had accused him of gross incompetence, demanded he physically restrain the Indonesians, then wanted to take their helicopter. While Kaboro understood the man’s concerns, there was no point inflaming the situation.

Kaboro chuckled as the irascible Australian took a sip of the too-hot coffee and spat it out with an oath.

At that moment, the tray of coffee abruptly crashed to the deck and Faiwalati fell to his knees. At first, Kaboro was outraged. Douglas must have struck him, for the cook was rasping like an asthmatic trying to breathe. Then Kaboro saw the long, thin stick protruding from his throat.

It was the opening drop of a monsoonal cloudburst of arrows. The deluge fell upon the Albany, salvos shattering or ricocheting off steel decks and superstructure. One ripped through the open bridge window and thudded into the captain’s seat beside Kaboro. The long arrow was made of fire-hardened cane grass with duck feather flights. Sporadic gunshots boomed like accompanying thunder. A porthole on the lower deck exploded in a shower of glass. Sparks flew as a slug caromed off the windscreen frame.

‘We’re under attack!’ Kaboro screamed at the men below.

By the time he reached the deck, Faiwalati was dead, an expression of hurt surprise frozen on his genial face. Kaboro was horrified to see most of the much-vaunted Long-Range Reconnaissance Group were huddling behind any cover they could find.

‘Regroup!’ he yelled. ‘Find a target!’

Ululating screams and whistles immediately brought an accurate volley of arrows down on his head. At least two spotters were directing fire. On the bow, Singkepe was directing short bursts into likely-looking branches and thickets of kunai grass, in the hope of flushing them out.

The PNGDF was one of the few services in the world which faced attack from primitive weapons. Kaboro recalled the advice of a wizened highland instructor, a survivor of tribal conflicts from a time when it was acceptable to build a skull pile outside your hut, who had said, ‘The arrow you see won’t hit you, the one you can’t, will.’ To reinforce this, he’d shot blunt arrows at them as they dodged and weaved. It had been a painful lesson. Unfortunately, with the volume of projectiles arcing through the mist, it wasn’t much help.