He Come Never No More

To the yam patches and palm-roofed villages of free New Guinea the word came: him good fella white fella man had called for a big sing-sing to celebrate the passing of him bad fella Japan man.

Along footworn trails through grassland and jungle hurried the villagers, with feathers in their fuzzy-wuzzy hair, ocher paint on their black bodies, drums and pipes slung across their shoulders. Near the white man's busy base at Finschhafen they converged.

A veteran Aussie officer, known up & down the territory, made the keynote speech: "Japan man he come never no more." Then the drums boomed, flutes shrilled, voices chanted, dancers swayed and stomped in frenzy. When the hour came for the immemorial roast-pork feast there was not enough to go around: him hungry Japan man had combed the jungle clean of wild pigs. But him white fella man more than made up the lack with bully beef and flour. Never in fuzzy-wuzzy memory had there been a finer sing-sing.

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