Attack at Numbaira: Don’t fight, we have rifles....

BOB CLELAND

I HAD BEEN ON A ROUTINE census, health survey and general administration patrol in the Taiora Division south of Kainantu in 1956.

We progressed well from village to village and when close to the southern extremity of the area I heard reports of tribal fighting further to the south at a village called Numbaira.

Two policemen I’d sent to have a careful look were warned off with fearsome threats and derisive insults, so I decided I’d better take the whole patrol in to investigate.

The Numbaira people lived on the headwaters of the mighty Purari River in the same valley system as the fearsome Kukukuku peoples. They had a reputation as warriors who loved a fight and resented intruders onto their land. They had attacked a Government patrol some years earlier.

We were on the track well before dawn. We climbed to the rim of the ridge surrounding the collection of hamlets in a small valley in this steep, rugged limestone country. With binoculars I could see below, apparently normal, early morning village life with women and children bustling about their houses.

Suddenly, cries of alarm drifted up to us in the still morning air and the villagers began rushing about and disappearing into the long grass and craggy limestone outcrops. One of my policemen said to me, “Look, they have lookouts who’ve seen us.”

There, some distance away, across a gorge, was a distinct smoke column rising as a warning signal. Within five minutes, there was no sign of life in the hamlets or anywhere else in the valley.

We needed to get to the Government Rest House on a spur some few kilometres away, which was well positioned for a strategic defence, but to get there we had to follow the track down through the Numbaira hamlets and up the ridge to the Rest House.

We came into the open, and descended to the village. Apart from the noise of our own progress, there was dead silence around us. We checked all the houses but found no one. They had taken all their possessions with them which was not a good sign.

Rough terrain and the narrow path through tall grass and limestone pinnacles forced us into a long single file as we continued to the Rest House.

With me were European Medical Assistant John Birkin and his three medical orderlies, two police lance corporals and eight constables, and about 25 carriers, interpreters and other personnel. All police carried .303 rifles but no ammunition. John carried his own .22 calibre rifle and ammunition. I carried a .303 with ammunition which I would issue to the police if necessary.

Suddenly and silently, a volley of dozens of arrows showered amongst us, falling almost vertically from the sky. The patrol faltered but stayed together; we continued – with interpreters, on my instructions, calling out something like, “Don’t fight us. We have rifles. You cannot win.”

Five minutes later, came another volley accompanied by distant yells and yodelling. As we started the climb up the spur in more open country, a small group of tribesmen followed at a distance, yelling insults and firing arrows towards us, all of which fell short.

Fifteen minutes later we made the Rest House with the tribesmen still just out of arrow-shot and continuing their belligerent behaviour. One carrier and one policeman had minor arrow wounds and were treated in the Rest House by John.

I, with several police and the interpreter, stayed near the lower perimeter of the 100 metre area cleared around the Rest House, just watching.

I quote from my Patrol Report: At this stage, a single round of .303 ammunition was fired into the air well above their heads. They hesitated, but after a minute or so, continued firing arrows. A second round was fired into the ground about ten minutes later about 50 yards in front of the hostile group. Seeing the puff of dust, they retired to sit on a kunai hillock about three-quarters of a mile away.

This was simple, unemotional and understated language for the purposes of my official report.

The reality was, in fact, highly emotional.  This was a first-time event in my mere three years’ experience as a field officer. I knew I had to stay calm and act within the very tight limits of policy and the law, while still containing the hostile situation.

The police lance corporal, Kapo, who I knew well, was experienced but excitable and upset that one of his Constables had been (slightly) wounded by an arrow. John, the Medical Assistant, seemed to be seeing this as a bit of a Boys Own adventure; and the hostile group below us, led by the Numbaira luluai or head man, was in a high state of anger and belligerence.

Before I fired the first shot, the belligerents had been inching closer so that they were now almost able to lob an arrow on the Rest House. Other groups at several points behind them, though quieter, were also inching closer and firing an occasional arrow.

So I fired the warning shot. About fifteen seconds later, the light crack-crack-crack of John’s .22 sounded as he emptied his magazine into the air. ‘Bloody fool,’ I thought.

The anti-climax effect of the small calibre .22, coming after the crashing shot of the .303 and its echoes bouncing around the enclosed valley, was comical.

The tribesmen must have thought so too, as they stopped retreating, let off a chorus of excited yells and whoops and consolidated their positions. All groups continued their shouted abuse and firing arrows.

As they began advancing again, it seemed as if they were testing us before getting more serious. The Lance Corporal beside me said, ‘You had better shoot the luluai, Kiap.’ I said ‘No Kapo, we’ll wait and see what they do.’

Their threatening attitude didn’t change. Kapo insisted, ‘Kiap, shoot the luluai. Without him, the rest will not attack.’ I knew that to be so, but still I waited. The luluai’s group, as well as the other groups, continued to close in, probably emboldened by our lack of further reaction. I concluded that enough was enough. I carefully aimed at the luluai and fired.

As the heavy rifle jolted into my shoulder I was instantly appalled that I’d deliberately attempted to take a human life. I visualised serious reprisals. I imagined the inevitable enquiry into my actions and the devastation of my career. Then the bullet hit the ground about 50 metres in front of the luluai with a huge burst of dust and pulverised limestone.

I remained motionless in the same expansion of time and finally ‘came to’ with Kapo saying, ‘Ah, good Kiap, they’re running away now.’

My report continues: After a rest of two hours, during which the group did not move, the writer with a Lance Corporal and the Interpreter approached to within 300 yards of the hostile group and engaged them in shouted conversation. With much persuasion and cajoling, the luluai came forward of his own accord. He was taken into the Rest House and taken into custody.

The luluai was a government-appointed head man of a village. This man would have been recognised by an earlier patrol as a leader, appointed and counselled, among other things, to keep the peace in his village and assist government patrols when they visited. He was certainly a leader and a ‘big man’ but his other duties were clearly being ignored.

In the back and forth shouting preceding his ‘surrender’, I emphasised that he was a luluai and suggested that he would be shamed in the view of many people if he didn’t do his job properly. If he gave himself up, I promised that we would take him with us to Kainantu for a short time and return him to his village in due course.

That night the hamlets were quiet and the women and children returned to their houses. The next day four more tribesmen visited the Rest House saying they would go with their leader to Kainantu. It turned out they’d been a part of the small belligerent group. In the Court for Native Affairs, convened later that day, I sentenced them all to three months gaol in Kainantu for riotous behaviour.

The real object behind the sentence was to take these men to Kainantu, and indeed, to incarcerate them, but also to allow them to learn Melanesian Pidgin, let them experience parts of the wider world outside their village, and to teach them a little about law, agriculture and economics.

In discussions with Assistant District Officer Mick Foley, it was agreed that I would personally return them to their village as promised and use them to establish good relations with that village and others in the area.

That didn’t happen! Headquarters in Port Moresby decided that I should go to Sydney to attend a year-long course at the Australian School of Pacific Administration. About the same time, Mick Foley went on leave.

So, when the five Numbaira men completed their sentence, they were merely released in Kainantu and expected to find their own way back home. Some time later, the Numbaira people attacked another government patrol. 

What could have been a significant forward step in pacification and development for these people, turned out to be only a slight hiccup in their traditional aggressive way of life. And I have been forever thankful that I had underestimated the distance between us when I fired that second shot.

Comments

[Peter Turner]

Yes Bob, no one knows if they have it in them, the sand to kill another human being, until they pull that trigger.

Thank God, Brother, that, having crossed that line, you were spared the actuality.

'Bill' Adamson, pre war Kiap, ('Outside' The Life of CTJ Adamson. Michael Bird, 2003) found himself in a similar situation, not far from Numbaira in 1937, and for the only time in his life, pulled the trigger on a warrior intent on killing him.

This fight leader, with twenty others,came hurtling down on the Patrol from ambuscade. Adamsons Sergeant said something to express his extreme concern, like 'Oh shit'.

Coolly, Adamson, a crack shot, took a 'bunduk' thrown to him by one of his Coppers,(his personal firearm, a Winchester 30.30 had been damaged earlier when he clobbered another attacker with it) lined the dude up, fired, and was startled to see the guy, in full charge, leap in the air and hit the ground running. Fight over.

It turned out that the rifle's sights were slightly out of skew and he met a 'very chastened and friendly' dude, a few days later, with a hole in his right earlobe...

Adamson must have lived another 50 odd years being thankful for that faulty sight. It is not hard to imagine what the earless warrior thought.

Whether the decision is made, after weighing up the situation and risk, or in struggle of hand to hand, life is never quite the same.

Your guardian angel was sitting on your shoulder that day Bob.

May he continue to be diligent. God Bless.

[Sharlene Kendo]

There are some experiences in Papua New Guinea especially in the highlands worse than what you experienced but it all comes with how we Melanesians or behave due to our cultural heritage.

PNG is still not developed so some remote parts stll don't know the western world.

So my apologies to you western people and to my Eastern Highlands fellow citizens. Please do not see your uncivilised countrymen as an animal for you to shoot and kill or do other violent things to them.

[Nevegapa Abeya Sam]

Thanks Bob for visiting Numbaira village in Eastern Highlands Province.

As an Eastern Highlander, I want to tell you that tribal fighting is part of our life and also includes all the other highlands provinces.

In the past, our ancestors were warriors. Those attitudes and behaviours and attitudes were passed on from generation to generation and we are stil practicing them today.

You will hear about tribal fights in the highlands in all the daily newspapers and other media.

As an eastern highlander, I want to appologise for the bad attitudes that my people had shown to you and your friends. They were not civilised during that time so they did terrible thing to you guys.

But thanks for the efforts you put in to the development of my province. As a result, my province has developed.

We are now civilised and we are still developing. Thanks Bob for visiting Numbaira as well as the Eastern Highlands.