Storm at Sunset Read online

  Keith had been sorry to lose his skipper. He’d learned a lot from the man, and being an intelligent individual had felt he’d been able to sort out the wheat from the chaff in what Ted had had to offer. But when the opportunity to join Ken’s crew had immediately arisen, he’d quickly forgotten his disappointment. He’d kept in close contact with Ticehurst and company since their initial ferry trip out to the Far East and now, boasting the recently awarded and exalted rank of flying officer, he was delighted to be aboard.

  One by one the crew members completed their preparations and Ken signalled to the groundcrew.

  “Come on, you chaps – it looks as though ‘B for Baker’s’ crew are just about to start up. I’m blowed if I’m going to let them steal a march on us again. Are you nearly ready?” The skipper was itching to get under way. He knew the circus that was about to be unleashed and he was determined to be at the forefront of it.

  “Ready, skip.”

  Within a couple of minutes Ticehurst had the Dak humming with life and the checks finalised. Pausing only long enough to have the chocks removed he brought the engines up from idle, called for the tail wheel to be unlocked, and eased the big machine away to head around the perimeter track towards the runway. He knew there would be no time to pause and check the magneto drops before take-off, so he and the co-pilot did those one by one as he taxied, struggling to rein the aircraft in as they did so. He was comfortably ahead of ‘Baker’, he thought, and he glanced around to keep tabs on the six other aircraft which would complete that morning’s eight-ship Bandoeng resupply mission.

  “Dammit!” One of the aircraft, which Ken had been sure he’d been ahead of, had broken ranks and was cutting across the grass on a direct line for the runway threshold. Then another. And now he could see a third sneaking out of line. Within seconds it had become a free-for-all, with birds and wildlife scattering as Dakotas roared across the open airfield.

  “Bugger!” Ken wasn’t having this. If he cranked it left now he knew he should be back in pole position – and he did so. But still it would be touch and go. He opened the intercom briefly.

  “Hang on, chaps!”

  As he selected fully fine pitch and pushed the throttles forward, the old lady bounced and lurched across the rutted grass towards the take-off point, and he was rewarded by a green light from the long-suffering runway caravan controller. He swept around onto the runway heading as fast as he dared, with the tail wheel already off the ground and the seven other Daks trailing in his wake. Within barely a few seconds of opening up to full take-off power the heavily-laden aircraft broke ground, and he was soon calling for the wheels to be retracted.

  “First round to us today,” he chortled, as he eased the machine around onto her southerly heading. It was going to be a good mission, he could tell.

  The outbound flight was routine, and thirty minutes later saw them circling down to land on the strip at their destination. The second and third legs were equally straightforward, and as they taxied in at Bandoeng for the second time they were still comfortably in the lead. Ken was pleased to see as he eased onto the dispersal that an unloading team was at the ready, and almost before the engines had spluttered to a stop the cargo door had been opened and their freight was being manhandled out onto waiting donkey carts.

  A fresh-faced young British army officer came aboard, introduced himself, and briefed them on the final duty.

  “Going swimmingly here today, captain. We’ve got a part load of internees for you this time, plus a stack of Japanese occupation banknotes which we need to get rid of. Should have you ready to go within twenty minutes or so. How would that suit?”

  “Just right.” Ken glanced across at the mountains, still clearly visible before the afternoon cloud had had a chance to build, and winked at his crew. “First in, first out today, lieutenant. No problem!”

  “Good. I see the second kite’s just landed so I’ll have to get over and sort him out. I’ll leave you with the team here. They’re Japanese, and very good. The little chap over there’s their officer, and he keeps them in order. You’ll not have any trouble with them. If you’d like some early lunch we’ve got the flight-line canteen handy.” And he indicated a battered van within which could be seen the smiling face of a young woman. She waved. “Now I’ll be off chaps, to see to my next charge. ’Til tomorrow, then!” And with that the army officer was gone.

  The crew needed no second invitation, and they made their way across to the vehicle, attracted equally by the presence of the girl and by the smell of the hot food she was offering. As they drew near they registered that, although there was a certain weariness about her features, she was no more than eighteen or so years old. Her faded dress was ragged on her skinny body, but as she brushed back the wisps of hair which had strayed across her face in the light breeze they could see that she was a beauty. She smiled shyly at them and, gesturing at the contents of the pot and a pile of plates, indicated that the food was ready to serve.

  “Nasi Goreng,” she said. “Very nice. You will have?”

  Not having eaten since breakfast, they were anxious to sample the Javanese rice dish and were soon tucking in. Concentration on the unusually tasty food stifled conversation for a short period, but the girl’s aura kept them tethered within a short radius of her mobile canteen and they were soon ready to press their new acquaintanceship further.

  It was hard to tell her nationality. Her skin bore the lightish yellow-brown tint of the Far East, but that could just as well have come from the long effect of the sun on a lighter, European colouring as from her ancestry. Her eyes were slightly narrowed against the glare, and gave no clue to her origin. English was clearly not her native tongue, but she nevertheless spoke it quite well.

  Dusty, the nav, was first to gather the courage to investigate further. “This is very good.” He gestured at his nearly empty plate. “Delicious. Where did you learn to make it?”

  “Here. In Java. Native food. And Japanese like, too.”

  Dusty paused to consider this. It seemed she had been working, at least to some extent, with the occupying force. “Where are you from?”

  “I Dutch. My family …” Her voice tailed off, and she made a forlorn gesture that seemed to indicate ‘gone’. She looked down quickly, but not quickly enough to hide what could have been a welling tear.

  So that was it. Her family had, presumably, been a part of the Dutch colonial organisation. Whether permanently settled or on a tour of duty, whether traders or government officials, could only be guessed at. But somehow they’d been swept up in the storm of the Japanese occupation. Maybe the girl had been imprisoned – or perhaps made to work for the invaders. Whatever the circumstances, she must still have been a child when the whole business had started. But now, even the brief conversation they’d had with her indicated that it had all left a deep scar.

  At that moment she seemed young and vulnerable. And yet the experiences they sensed she had been through in her short life somehow lent her an air of maturity, making the aircrew feel humble and inadequate. War-hardened veterans they might have been, but the oldest amongst them was still only twenty-three. Apart from the poor skeletal beings they’d been ferrying out from the internment camps and of course the professional women who operated around their quarters in Batavia – whom the more sensible amongst them avoided like the plague – they were desperately short of female company, and this damsel in distress was having a powerful effect on them.

  They struggled to find a way to help her with her tears, and the WOp won the race. After a quick rummage in his pocket, he extracted the grubby-looking rag which, in current circumstances, passed for his handkerchief. He examined it briefly, brushed off a couple of the more doubtful-looking patches, and offered it to her.

  She took the dubious item and, with never a pause, dabbed gently at the corners of her eyes before returning it to him with a grateful smile.

  He held her gaze as he pocketed the article. “Will you stay here? After … after thi
s is all over?”

  “I not know. Perhaps go home to Nederland. And you?”

  “Yes, I’ll go home, too. As soon as our job is done. What is your name?”

  “Nelli.”

  “Mine’s Freddie.”

  A shout interrupted their budding friendship, coming from the nearby area where their aircraft was parked. “Oi! You lot. Loading’s just about finished. Let’s be ’aving you!”

  The boys clattered their empty plates onto the girl’s counter and she tidied away prior to driving off to the next aircraft. As the crew returned to their Dak, Freddie looked back and caught the girl’s eye. “See you next time!”

  “Yes, I like that. Bye bye!” She waved, smiled, and then was gone, the ancient canteen van belching smoke from its war-weary engine.

  Freddie took out his handkerchief again and carefully refolded it, smelling it as he did so. “I’ll never wash this again,” he murmured to himself.

  But not quietly enough, and he jumped as a crewmember’s voice bellowed over his shoulder: “You never washed it anyway, you dirty little beast!”

  The repartee continued to fly unmercifully as Ken and the rest of the crew clambered aboard to prepare for the flight, while the co-pilot lit a cigarette and strolled around the aircraft exterior, checking for systems leaks and taking a cursory glance at the condition of tyres and undercarriage. The final truckload of cargo was being readied and Keith watched as the Japanese driver backed the flat-bed up to the fuselage door. There was a slight lurch as it bumped over a large stone, and the rear corner of the truck’s load platform made the briefest of contacts with the aircraft fuselage before rolling clear again. Out of ingrained habit, Keith took a pace of two forward and brushed his fingertips over the spot where the two machines had touched, but there was no tear in the Dak’s thin metal skin. Only the merest scuff of a mark – lost amongst the dozens of flaws and blemishes which bore witness to the aircraft’s years of rugged service.

  But as he drew on his cigarette and resumed his external inspection, he sensed a commotion behind him. Glancing round, he could see the Japanese officer running up, waving his arms. The man peered closely at the aircraft fuselage and gestured again. Keith took it that he’d either seen the incident or noticed him – Keith – checking for damage, and this was confirmed when the Japanese bowed and spoke.

  “What happen here?”

  Keith didn’t feel it necessary to suggest any fault on the part of the unfortunate soldier for what had been, it seemed to him, a trifling and unfortunate accident.

  “It was nothing. Nothing at all. Please forget it.”

  But the officer was not to be so easily put off. He turned back to the site of the alleged damage and re-examined it minutely. Then, his voice rising with anger, he bellowed some instructions at a soldier who, Keith guessed, must have been the squad’s NCO. The latter snapped to attention and shouted a stream of orders, whereupon the dozen or so troops instantly arranged themselves into parade-like ranks. The officer proceeded to harangue them.

  The co-pilot turned away. This was not what he wanted, and yet he felt unable to interfere. He had not intended to make any trouble over the minor incident. He knew that the policy was for the British to involve themselves as little as possible in the Japanese command structure, and he had no wish to do so at this instant. Worse still, the present goings on were threatening to delay their departure. He jumped aboard and went forward to inform the skipper of the unfortunate developments outside. There were curses as the crew realised that this was inevitably going to cost them a delay.

  “Well, can’t be helped, Keith,” said Ken. “I guess it was all going too well. You’d better get back outside and keep an eye on things. Keep me up to date with what’s going on.”

  The co-pilot returned to the fuselage door to be met by an extraordinary sight. As the Japanese officer barked an order, the driver at the centre of the piece marched smartly out and stood to attention in front of him. The officer then took careful aim before smashing a punch into the unfortunate soldier’s face. The man staggered slightly, but maintained his position. Another punch. Then another. With the additional effect of the several heavy signet rings the officer was wearing, the man’s face was soon reduced to a bloody pulp. Keith winced as he heard bone and cartilage break under the impact of one particularly vicious blow. Throughout all this, the officer continued his tirade, but the soldier uttered not a word. Indeed, he was still standing rigidly to attention when the punishment came to an end and the officer stepped back. A final torrent of enraged words followed the soldier as he marched back to resume his position in the ranks. The Japanese officer then snapped around to face Keith and saluted.

  “I apologise for this man’s incompetence. It will not be permitted to happen again.” And he saluted again.

  At a loss for words, Keith threw up a half-hearted salute in return. Whereupon, on a further order, the squad completed their loading duties at the run. As the cargo door slammed shut, the stunned co-pilot made his way to the cockpit and wearily took his seat.

  “What’s wrong, Keith? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  The crew had been counting off the other Daks as they’d departed, at the same time noting the angry cumulonimbus build-ups which had been forming over the mountains even as they’d watched. “It’s going to be a rough trip back,” continued Ken. “But we’re running so late now that a few more minutes aren’t going to make any difference. Tell us what’s bothering you.”

  Briefly and hesitantly, Keith recounted the scenes he’d witnessed.

  The crew were silent for a moment at the co-pilot’s description of the violence which had occurred. “Blimey,” breathed Dusty. “It gives you a renewed insight into the mentality, doesn’t it? Those POWs we see every day. Skeletons. They’ve clearly been subjected to the most unbelievable treatment. And the stories we’ve heard about the Burma railway – the cruelty the prisoners suffered. Seeing this violence at first hand makes you understand, in a way, that the East and the West just don’t understand each other. There’s a huge cultural difference causing the problem between us. We’re quite simply on totally separate wavelengths.”

  “And the tricky thing is,” added Keith, “that we have no more understanding of the Javanese – especially the nationalists – than we do of the Japs.”

  They were all silent for a further couple of moments before the skipper stirred them. “Yes. Terrible. But that’s done now. The war’s over and we’ve got a job to do – and the weather to battle with. Are you all right now, Keith?”

  “Yes … of course. Let’s go.”

  And they turned to the job of starting the old crate up.

  As they wheeled away from Bandoeng, Underwood allowed himself a glance out of the window, and he craned back to see whether the mobile canteen was still on the flight-line. Amidst the drama surrounding the Japanese loading team he’d almost forgotten Nelli.

  “What’re you looking for, Freddie?” The skipper had caught his WOp peering out of the side screen, and he saw the chance to lighten the mood. “Did you drop a penny on the apron?”

  “Nah – you know very well what it is. I’ve gotta get back there soon and see that girl again. I’m certain that she’s in love with me.”

  Mercilessly, they ganged up on him.

  “You and half the squadron!”

  “Just because you haven’t seen a woman for three years, there’s no reason to fall for the first thing in a skirt you meet.”

  “You wouldn’t know a girl from a tuning dial. Get back to your valves!”

  The ribbing continued merrily, erasing the memory of the unsavoury beating they’d been unwilling witnesses to. And before very long they were forced to divert their attention to the more serious consideration of the thunder cloud building up over the mountain passes. But still their mood remained light as they initiated their customary decision-making process as to which valley would be the least hazardous.

  “Let’s go for the one to st
arboard.” Dusty was craning over the pilots’ shoulders, pointing out his preferred route.

  “Bollocks, no,” came in Keith. “We went that way last time and it was a really hairy ride.”

  “Toss up for it!” Helpful advice from Freddie.

  They were forced lower and lower, and before long were so close to the ground that they could clearly see every detail of life in remote Indonesian villages as they raced overhead. Turbulence rattled the fillings out of their teeth as terrain-induced gusts and up-draughts redoubled the monsoon’s efforts.

  A whine, a couple of pings and sharp cracks. The unmistakable sound of gunfire added to the din, followed by an almighty metallic ‘clang’ and the stench of petrol.

  Freddie leapt up from his metal seat like a scalded rabbit.

  “Bloody hell – let’s get out of here! I thought you said the war was over!”

  The skipper rammed the throttles to the wall and, if anything, flew even lower. Now the aircraft was brushing the treetops. The gods must have been on their side that day, for almost immediately they were through the pass and clear of the weather. As the terrain opened up below them he was able to ease the machine away from the ground, come back on the power and take stock of the situation.

  “Check in, everybody, one by one, and report how you are and what damage you can see.”

  “Co-pilot fine – systems appear all to be okay except for fuel. There’s a leak somewhere, and we’re losing it fast from the port side.”

  “Okay, thanks – we’ll get on to that in a moment.”

  “Nav fine – no damage.”

  “WOp fine, except for …”

  “Sorry Freddie, I got the ‘fine’ … but in the meantime we’re going to have to do something about the fuel or we won’t make it back. I’m going to feed both engines from the port tank so that we use the maximum before it runs out. Agreed, Keith?”