Storm at Sunset Read online

  “Sounds like the best plan, skipper.” And the co-pilot made the necessary switches. What seemed like a mere couple of minutes later, a hiccup in the beat of one of the engines told them that the port fuel lines were almost empty.

  “Switch to starboard system.” They paused to check that the new arrangement was functioning correctly, and were reassured by the steady growl of both engines and a reasonable rate of fuel usage. The skipper trimmed the ailerons to compensate for the imbalance. “I’ll climb to conserve fuel. Nav, will you give me an idea as soon as you can whether or not we’re going to make it on what’s left?”

  Dusty was already busy with his calculations, scribbling away on a jotter.

  “Now then, Freddie. Did you have something else to report back there?”

  “I certainly did. One of the bullets hit the underside of my seat. Look at that dent. Nearly wrote off my wedding tackle!”

  “Very lucky then,” offered Keith, “that the gunners had such a small target to aim at!”

  “Dear old Nelli would never have found out what she was missing!”

  There was a choking noise from the WOp, and raucous laughter from the others. And when the nav came back with the information that they’d just about make it back to base on the fuel remaining, the tension lifted like a dispersing cloud.

  The skipper began to hum one of Vera Lynn’s popular numbers, and before long they’d all joined in.

  “Well, it hasn’t been such a bad day in the end,” commented Dusty. “All I ask is that no-one lights a cigarette before we land, for it still stinks like hell of petrol in here.”

  ****

  So they’d encountered anti-aircraft fire. The squadron crews had suspected for a while that they were being targeted but, until now, had been unable to pin down any evidence. Nobody could be certain who might be manning the guns. Could have been the renegade Indonesians. Or kids who were merely having fun with weapons they’d found abandoned and using anything that flew for a spot of target practice. Although the Japanese forces on the island had supposedly surrendered, there was some evidence that a good number of them were still actively stirring up trouble for their former enemies by training, equipping and encouraging the dissident locals. Perhaps there were even Japs out there who didn’t know the war was over. Whoever was doing the shooting, it hadn’t thus far caused more than a nuisance. At least not yet, thought Ken, wryly. But one lucky shot could spoil somebody’s whole day. At the very least it was an irritation they really didn’t need on top of the natural hazards of terrain and weather.

  CHAPTER 16

  “You know what, Bert? We could make a bit here.”

  Freddie Underwood was hot on the trail of financial advantage. Every time he’d visited the shopping area in Batavia he’d observed an accounting anomaly, and had puzzled over how he could profit from it. Recognising that Java was a former Dutch colony, the RAF had arranged for the men to be paid since they’d arrived there in either pounds sterling or Dutch guilders. However, when they went to the shops in the capital the airmen found that local traders were reluctant to accept their money as they themselves used Japanese guilders. Although that currency was in theory now valueless, as it did not have the backing of a national bank, in practice it was the only money used in the town. The RAF authorities, aware of this, had agreed that the cashier could issue the men a small allowance of Japanese guilders for pocket money. This was a no-cost operation to the RAF, as they had ‘liberated’ unlimited amounts of what was known as Japanese ‘banana money’ as formerly occupied areas opened up.

  So for their limited spending opportunities in Java this was what the boys used, leaving their pounds and Dutch money free to bank or send home to families. Everybody was happy. But of course, in the finest traditions of servicemen abroad, it didn’t take long for the wilier birds amongst them to spot an opportunity for bettering their lot. And Freddie was now ready to make his fortune. He and the medic were in the downtown market on one of those evenings when the city seemed a nice place to be.

  “Watch this, Bert.”

  He took out a small sheaf of pound notes and approached a money-changer.

  “How much then, me old sunshine, for Netherlands guilders?”

  Both guilders and pounds were essentially worthless to the trader, and the man shrugged. Then, as though having given the matter careful consideration, he gave a figure.

  “You see, Bert?” Freddie was excited. “That’s miles better than the camp exchange rate. We can make a bit of dough here!”

  Bert was doubtful. “I’m not sure it’s legal. I’d rather not.”

  But Freddie wasn’t to be deterred. “Look, we don’t have to go mad. Even if we only make enough to buy ourselves a nice meal in the town – just for a change from the usual camp muck – it will be worth it. Let’s give it another go.” He turned back to the trader and, with a mixture of pidgin English and gestures, proposed an even more outrageous rate. He was rewarded with a throwaway gesture − but accompanied by a nod. He counted out his pound notes and handed them over.

  The money-changer checked them again and, taking from his till a huge bundle of guilders, peeled off an impressive total of the Dutch notes and handed them over.

  “They’re probably forged,” said the doubtful Bert. “Then you’ll be stuck with them.”

  “You wait,” chortled Freddie. “When I’m rich you’ll be jealous.”

  The next day saw Freddie triumphantly emerging from the camp accounts office with a very satisfactory bundle of pound notes. “Now,” he said to Bert when they met again later, “I have to decide whether to take these back to town and try the manoeuvre again, or whether to send them straight home. Stick or twist? Either way I win. What do you think?”

  Bert found the idea tempting but remained non-committal. And over the coming days Freddie redoubled his winnings several times. Recognising the dangers of over-exposure, he kept the amounts sensibly modest. But he couldn’t resist talking about his luck, and before long others were emulating him. Not only that, but a few naturally failed to observe the need, if the scheme were to stand a chance of continuing, for modesty and discretion.

  And so it wasn’t long before the accounts officer noticed the increasingly preposterous sums of Dutch guilders he was being asked to change into pounds, and the grille clanged shut on the cashier’s counter.

  “So now you’ve had your first lesson in economics,” Dusty consoled the disappointed WOp. “Followed by your first lessons in philosophy.”

  “What’s philosophy got to do with it?” wailed Freddie.

  “Whenever you’re on to a good thing, keep your big mouth shut. Otherwise you can be sure that some sod will come along and cock it up for you! And also don’t kill the golden goose. Come on,” he chuckled, “you can still afford to buy me a beer with your earnings, even if your scheme has come to a sticky end!”

  “Have one yourself, too,” continued Bert, “to celebrate escaping being put on a charge.”

  And with one of the crewmembers gripping each arm, Freddie found himself being propelled forcibly to the bar.

  ****

  It was late afternoon, and Brownlow held up a torch while his friend Chota, wedged uncomfortably into a cranny of the aircraft’s wing root, struggled with the improvised repair he was having to make to the severed fuel lines.

  “Bloody thing! They didn’t build these crates with a view to repairing them. Build it – crash it – bring in another one to replace it.”

  In common with many aircraft types, accessibility of its systems wasn’t the Dakota’s strong point. And especially in the steaming humidity, in the open, on an exposed airfield, when the sergeant had said that the kite was needed for operations at dawn the following morning. But no questions were asked – they did it. This particular job had been made more awkward by the required spare part not being available, so as was so often the case they’d had to adapt and make do.

  The fuel system was right up Brownlow’s street, but even if it h
adn’t been his specialisation he’d still have mucked in when a job needed to be done. That was how they’d all found it on Thirty-One, and even more so since the refugee business had become so pressing. His primary work was on the ground, but he flew when he was required to. Either as an airborne fitter, accompanying his aircraft on a land-away or being ferried to fix another. Or even filling in when there was a shortage of aircrew.

  The work he had most enjoyed was as an air gunner. Some of the Daks were fitted with ancient .303 Vickers VGO guns, one on each side of the cabin on swivels so that their barrels could be trained out of the centre windows. The original idea had been to provide defence against enemy fighters over Burma, where the squadron had lost several aircraft to Japanese Oscars. There had never been conclusive evidence of VGOs bringing down a fighter – although they had, perhaps, ensured that some enemy pilots had attacked with a little more circumspection than if the transports had been completely unarmed. So they’d been retained more as morale boosters for the Dak crews than as a genuine defensive aid. Although there was no similar threat in Java, WOps who were also qualified as air gunners occasionally got to practise with the VGOs, and it was on this bit of sport that Brownlow had occasionally managed to muscle in.

  Arthur’s fitter friend cursed again as he caught his head a whack on a sharp corner of a protruding gun. “Bugger that! Move it out of my way, would you?”

  “Good job you’re such a compact little chap, Chota! Specially selected for cramped corners of the kite’s innards.”

  The corporal grunted as he continued working, his mood not improved by the painful swelling on his temple. But at last the job was done and he wiped the area clean with a greasy rag.

  “Right then, dear boy, that’ll do it I think. Just need to check the repair. Be a good chap and nip up and switch on the port fuel pump for me.”

  Arthur did as he was bidden, and with a whine and a gurgle the fuel began to pressurise the lines.

  Satisfied mutterings came from down below.

  “That’s it – switch off. I’ll just get the sarge to sign it off and that’ll be us done.”

  He scrambled up from the bowels of the aircraft, covered in dirt and grease and stinking of fuel.

  “Another day in paradise!”

  The two of them stumbled off in the gathering gloom to clean up prior to clocking off.

  They then joined the rest of their shift, standing packed like sardines in the back of the gharry – the Thorneycroft lorry taking them downtown to their billets. Some were living in requisitioned bungalows, with others in the Hotel Pahlawen. Batavia had, in colonial days, been known as the ‘Queen of the East’, but now in these difficult times it hardly lived up to its name. Every other shop was closed, and they remarked on the red and white Indonesian colours and slogans daubed across many street-side walls.

  “Look at that. ‘Freedom – the birthright of every nation.’ Can’t argue with that, can you?”

  “‘We don’t want to be ruled by the Dutch.’ No, I don’t think I’d want to be, either!”

  “You know, Arthur, when we arrived here I quite enjoyed the change. But what with the curfew and the lack of fresh water and sanitation, I’m going off the place.”

  “I know what you mean. There’s a kind of suspicious atmosphere around.” Brownlow peered uneasily into the shadows, seeing shapes, as the old Thorney slowed to negotiate a small traffic jam of carts and rickshaws.

  “I hate these journeys nowadays,” the corporal continued. “Always get the feeling we’re being watched.”

  “I’m with you on that. Those walls seem to have eyes, as well as ears.”

  The boys, by now thoroughly spooked, jumped afresh at a new alarm.

  “Who the hell are those blokes?” They ducked uneasily, while following an airman’s pointing finger.

  “Oh, Christ. They’re Japs – bowing to us.”

  Headquarters staffs had pointed out to them in no uncertain terms soon after the squadron’s arrival that the Japanese were sticklers for formality. Their hierarchy had apparently made it clear that they wished to pay respects to the victors – and that they’d take it as a dishonour if the compliments weren’t returned.

  The senior man in the truck returned a reluctant salute to the small squad of their former enemies their truck was passing. “As if we didn’t have enough to worry about,” he grumbled as they left the group behind.

  The rattling truck picked up speed again as it cleared the area, and the men relaxed a little. But before long it was brought to a halt again at another intersection. The airman driver jerked forward as he saw a gap in the traffic but immediately jammed on the brakes again as his opening disappeared.

  “Come on mate, don’t bugger around.” An airman’s voice encouraged the driver to be more assertive.

  None of them was relishing the journey, and they all felt particularly vulnerable while stationary.

  “Get a move on, you clown!”

  The pressure was coming on, and the driver nervously searched for an opening in the stream of traffic. At last his chance came and there was a half-hearted cheer as he got the tired old vehicle under way again. It had been a long day and the boys were looking forward to getting back to their accommodation.

  The truck slowed again as the road from the airfield met the main highway from the city centre to the docks. Buildings and trees surrounded the junction and, as if the boys sensed trouble, conversation dried up. The clouds were lowering and the heavy sky seemed to take on the threatening kind of light which often precedes a storm.

  An airman pointed. “What are those fellows up to?” He was indicating a couple of locals scuttling through the shadowy dusk.

  His friend shivered. “I don’t like this at all. Come on, driver. Move it!”

  Before anyone had a chance to say or do anything the crack of gunfire was upon them. As one, they hit the floor of the crowded truck in a jumble of bodies. Muffled cries continued to urge the driver:

  “Hit it, you bastard!”

  “Put your bloody foot down.”

  The cacophony of screams and shouts from the back at last seemed to get through to the frozen driver. Taking no further notice of jams or conflicting traffic, he crashed the gears and gave the lumbering truck everything he could. Ducking behind his wheel he swerved across the main road, a tinny thump and the tinkling of broken glass registering a couple of glancing collisions, and was soon clear of the ambush spot. A deafening grinding from the road below told them that they’d suffered a couple of punctures, but as the sound of gunfire died away behind them the driver continued to gun the bucking lorry until the hotel which was the first of their accommodation sites came into view.

  As he shrieked to a standstill, the tailgate slammed down and the airmen jumped to the ground, manhandling wounded comrades down to waiting hands who rushed them inside to the foyer.

  “Chota. Come on, mate.” Arthur called to his friend who was still standing, his hands locked on the front rail of the truck.

  “Chota, get a move on, you silly sod.”

  “He’s frozen. Go and get him.”

  Still no movement. Arthur jumped aboard again and made his way forward. His corporal was in shock, and he put an arm around him.

  “Come on, old boy – it’s all over now.”

  But Chota still stood, immovable, and Arthur suddenly became aware of an unnatural rigidity in his friend’s posture. A neat hole in the man’s forehead, bang in the centre of the bruise he’d picked up so recently while fixing the Dakota’s fuel lines, told him all he needed to know. During the attack, they’d been standing shoulder to shoulder, and Brownlow had felt the rush of air as a bullet had whizzed past his own face. It had had his friend’s name on it, not his.

  Other airmen joined him and together they prised Chota’s cold hands off the Thorney’s rail and got him into the hotel. But he was gone.

  ****

  The downtown curfew was tightened and the drivers adopted a policy of varying their route
s each day. Escorts armed with sten guns were added and army patrols redoubled. Life for the airmen billeted in the town became increasingly tense, and nobody was altogether surprised when, two weeks later, another of the squadron’s vehicles was ambushed. This time the airmen had seen the attackers early and the driver had thought he’d made good his escape, but the insurgents had come in numbers. And further along the road a hand grenade had scored a lucky hit, rolling underneath the fleeing truck. By the time the dust and debris had settled, four more men lay dying.

  The squadron was in shock. Five groundcrew dead, and others injured. At a hastily convened conference the following morning the decision had immediately been made to pull back to on-base accommodation for the time being, and additional tents and shelters were already being set up.

  “The men won’t like it; the airfield here’s already horribly overcrowded and I guess they were enjoying the freedom of living downtown for a change after so long in the jungle.” Wing Commander Macnamara was speaking. “But I’m certain they’ll understand. Probably be somewhat relieved, too, to be inside the wire.”

  “Yes,” came back Group Captain Harrison, the station commander. “I don’t think we’ve any option. The situation’s clearly deteriorating all round. This morning’s intelligence report had a horrible item detailing an incident where rebels turned on a prison camp. Fourteen internees were burned to death. So even the people we’re trying to rescue are becoming targets for political violence. At least with the distractions of Batavia city eliminated we’ll be able to concentrate our attentions on the mission. We may have to intensify our efforts. The army will be racing to reach the camps, and possibly even releasing prisoners by force before they can be harmed further. So we’ll have to be prepared to lift them out in whatever numbers are put before us.”

  “We’ll be ready,” Macnamara nodded. “Anyway, I feel better with the team on base. We certainly couldn’t continue with the current casualty rate. Dreadful. Do you know we’ve already lost more men here than we did in the whole of the war?”