Storm at Sunset Page 13

  “Groundcrew, I suppose you mean?”

  “Of course. The only saving grace is that the flying side of things doesn’t seem so dangerous here. We lost quite a few crews in India and Burma, but things do appear more straightforward in Java. Touch wood.”

  Absently, they both tapped the desk. Aircrew both, as a rule they steered clear of tempting fate in such a way.

  The wing commander made as though to raise another subject, but checked himself almost before he started.

  “Was there something else, Brian?” Harrison had caught the opening.

  “No, nothing for now, sir. There is a whisper in the wind but I’d like to try to deal with it myself before bothering you.”

  “Very well then, I’ll leave it to you. But you know where to find me.”

  “Of course.”

  And with that, the station commander got up and left the room, leaving Macnamara with his thoughts.

  ****

  And awkward thoughts they were indeed. Earlier in the day, one of the squadron’s shift NCOs had come to see him. The man, whom Macnamara trusted implicitly for his integrity and for his nose for trouble, had been in a high state of agitation.

  “Sir,” he’d opened, “we have a potential mutiny on our hands.”

  Although he thought this seemed a little melodramatic, the CO had initially been taken aback. “Now steady on there, Sergeant Wood. What do you actually mean?”

  “We’ve got a troublemaker, sir, who’s putting word about that the men should rise up. If we don’t nip it in the bud, there’s going to be consequences.”

  “Sit down then, sergeant ,and tell me the story.” And Macnamara indicated a folding chair in the corner of his tent.

  The NCO perched and recounted events as he understood them. Initially, as he’d routinely been doing his rounds he’d picked up talk amongst the men about the length of the overseas tour and of the likelihood that most of them would not be going home in the near future. This undercurrent had been bolstered by the usual moaning about their contemporaries who were busily re-establishing themselves in good jobs in post-war Britain. Natural enough talk, the sergeant had thought, especially in the light of the increased tension they were all experiencing. Servicemen always liked to have a good old gripe, and the situation they found themselves in was certainly providing plenty of elements to complain about. It would blow itself out, as usual, had been Wood’s initial reaction. But before long he had discovered that something else was fanning the flames.

  He continued with his story. “Well, sir, the new admin clerk, who’s just been posted in from India to complete his four years overseas, has turned out to be a bit of a barrack room lawyer. Not only that but he’s brought ideas of revolt which he’s openly peddling. The men are edgy, sir, and I’m afraid he might find fertile ground in which to sow dissent.”

  Macnamara had heard tales of minor mutinies at a couple of RAF stations on the subcontinent recently. If the term ‘minor mutiny’ can indeed make any sense, he corrected himself. Lord knows, a mutiny in a military establishment could never be anything other than very serious. What he’d really meant, he told himself, was that it seemed order had been quickly restored in every case with no serious damage being done.

  “Yes, well we need to sort out anything like that very swiftly, sergeant. Charge the man. What’s his name, anyway?”

  The discip sergeant shifted awkwardly in his seat. “That was my initial intention, sir. Aircraftman Patterson. But he’s an educated man and a slippery customer. The last thing we need is to slap a charge on him that he could wriggle out of. It would just increase his credibility amongst the more impressionable of our airmen. So I’ve hesitated thus far. Subversion, mutiny – these are serious crimes and we’d need lots of cast-iron evidence to make anything like that stick. We don’t want to mess it up and create a martyr.”

  “No need to take a hammer to crack a nut, certainly. ‘Conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline’; that should surely do the trick. Ten days restrictions and peeling spuds would surely cut him down to size in the eyes of the others, don’t you think?”

  “Possibly, sir, something along those lines. But as I said he’s a sly devil. I’ve been looking in that direction, but thus far I don’t think I’ve managed to gather enough evidence to pin anything on him.”

  “Well, whilst I acknowledge that some of our people have a justifiable gripe about their situation, I believe that the vast majority of them are too wrapped up in the work we’re doing to be affected by subversive talk. But I agree that we can’t afford to take a chance and that something needs to be done before any poison spreads. So you keep working on the problem, and I’ll turn my mind to possible solutions too. Thanks for bringing it to my attention. We’ll discuss it again soon.”

  And with that, Sergeant Wood left the tent and went about his business.

  Just a couple of days later, and after making discrete enquiries through old friends in staff positions, the wing commander had begun to formulate his solution and he spoke once more to his shift NCO. After establishing that the airman had been at the very most a peripheral character in those earlier mutinous actions, and that it was more than likely that he had been no more than an observer, Macnamara reasoned that he’d possibly come to Java with the missionary’s aim of striking a spark and seeing how quickly the flames would catch. Was he a disciple or a prophet? They didn’t yet know. Nevertheless, with no more than an outline idea of how he was going to structure the interview, he explained to the sergeant that he proposed to speak to the man.

  “Very good, sir. I’ll march him in at the earliest opportunity.”

  “No, sergeant. He’s a disaffected individual and you said yourself, a slippery character. I don’t want to scare him off with too much formality. I’m going to have him come to pay me a cashier’s claim that’s due, and then turn the conversation around to the matter in hand. Softly, softly, eh?”

  Wood, being out of the old-fashioned NCO mould, wasn’t a subtle man, and his instincts were very much more for the stick than the carrot. Nevertheless, he knew the wing commander’s reputation for getting things done by virtue of keeping the whole team onside, and he held his peace.

  Barely an hour later Aircraftman Jock Patterson was knocking on the tent pole of the squadron commander’s meagre field office. At the invitation to enter he came to attention in front of the trestle table that passed for a desk.

  “Ah, you’ve brought my claim.”

  “Yes, sir, there we are.” and he counted out a pile of notes and coins. “Would you mind please signing here, sir?” And he indicated the spot on the receipt.

  Macnamara signed. “There. Thank you. I don’t think we’ve met. Sorry. So many people coming and going. So much to get through. But I do as a rule try to meet all the men. Patterson, isn’t it? I understand that you’ve joined us from RAF Drigh Road. How are you settling in? And how were things in Karachi?”

  “I’m fine, sir, thank you. But India was looking difficult as I left it.”

  The rough Glasgow accent pointed, in the CO’s estimation, to a likely upbringing amongst the militant unionism of that great city’s shipyards. But he was in no rush to get to the point. “Have you been out east for a long time? And how does Java suit you?”

  “I’ve been out east for far too long, sir. And I’m wondering whether there will be a job for me to go home to. I’m afraid Java suits me no better than India did.”

  They batted the subject of demobilisation back and forward in general terms for a few minutes, with Macnamara allowing the airman to get a few moans off his chest, before the older man decided to inch a little closer to the point.

  “Rumour has it there have been minor disturbances at some of the RAF’s Indian stations.”

  The airman mumbled, noncommitally.

  “Some disaffection, I think I heard. Did you see any of that going on?”

  “A little. Yes, sir, I think I did.” Aircraftsman Patterson answered carefully, and Macnam
ara could see that his guard was closing up. The airman had no intention of talking openly until he was sure what the squadron commander’s line was going to be.

  “We’re a long way from India, Patterson, and reports of what’s been going on there are very sketchy. Our mission here is quite unlike what the squadrons there are doing, but I’m always interested in how we can learn from common difficulties. To understand each other’s problems is to give ourselves the best chance of avoiding similar mistakes. What was your perception of what happened there? Was it caused by the nature of the work?”

  “No, it wasn’t the work, sir. Well there wasn’t much real work, and that was the trouble, mainly. The airmen there basically felt that they’d done their bit. The war was over and they deserved to go home. They could see a situation brewing out there that they didn’t feel they should be a part of. They had their own lives to get on with.”

  Macnamara guessed that Patterson was alluding to the possibility of trouble arising when the time came for India to be given her independence, and he also noted the airman’s careful reference to the Drigh Road troublemakers in terms of ‘they’ rather than ‘we’.

  “Well I assume you understand that everybody will be got home – in more or less strict order of entitlement – just as soon as passages can be arranged for them.”

  The airman nodded, remaining silent. Without openly contradicting the squadron commander, there wasn’t much he could say to that.

  Macnamara pressed home his point. “And in the meantime there still are jobs that need doing in the east. Do you have much idea of what we’re up to here, Patterson?”

  “No, sir. Well, yes. We’re rescuing Dutch people, sir.”

  “Not just Dutch. Many nationalities. We’re rescuing human beings, and the point is that they’re people in need.”

  “So are we, sir. We’ve got lives to live. We’re entitled to go home. And more to the point, we shouldn’t be getting blown up and shot at out here. The war’s supposed to be over. And, you know sir, we conscripts were only signed up for the duration of the war.”

  The wing commander drew on his pipe for a moment. He was not altogether clear on that technicality, although he thought it likely that the call-up wouldn’t have been so tightly framed. He’d look into it; meanwhile, in the short term he came to a decision.

  “I’d like you to fly with us, Patterson. I’d like you to see what we’re doing. I think it would help you to understand.”

  “I don’t like flying, sir.”

  “You’re in the RAF aren’t you?”

  “I was conscripted. It doesn’t mean I want to fly. I’m a pay clerk.”

  The wing commander was tempted to reply that the squadron didn’t want troublemakers any more than Patterson wanted to fly, but he bit his lip.

  “Well I like as many of my men as possible, of all trades, to fly with us. The vast majority find the experience enlightening.”

  “Sir, I don’t think flying with you would change my opinion.”

  Macnamara decided that he’d played the gentleman for long enough.

  “Patterson, I’m not inviting you to discuss the matter. You’re an airman in the Royal Air Force and your duties may, from time to time, require you to fly. I want you to fly with us and we’ll fix it soon. Is that understood?”

  “Perfectly, sir. Will that be all?”

  “It will, Patterson. Dismiss.”

  The airman saluted and left the tent.

  Macnamara sighed. He felt that, in terms of convincing the man, the first round had ended in no better than a draw. But the opening skirmish had laid the ground. He was hopeful that actually taking part in a refugee mission would tip the balance in the second half. But in the meantime he was confident that the potential troublemaker would draw in his horns – at least for now. Making a mental note to ask the scheduling officer to roster a flight for Patterson at the earliest opportunity, he turned back to his pile of paper.

  CHAPTER 17

  Ken’s crew’s day off found them dispersed around the domestic area, each engaged in his personal world. The airmen were feeling the pace and looked forward to their free time. But most didn’t have the energy to do much with it, using the hours largely for relaxation and recuperation. A few might play a bit of badminton over nets strung up between the bashas. Others would pass the time by writing home. Whittling wood into models was popular. Watching the ever-energetic ants – it was always good to watch others work while being idle oneself. Each had his preference.

  Most of the more adventurous men, Dusty Binns amongst them, would have liked to have got in a little sightseeing in this strange and fascinating land, but the recent rebel activity had more or less closed off that option. A refreshing dip in the sea would have been welcome, too, and early on in their time Macnamara had looked into the possibility of beach expeditions. But for now, it was simply not worth taking the risk, so the men were confined to the airfield and the surrounding areas known to be safe. Dusty had, nevertheless, sloped off somewhere within the camp on some kind of natural history expedition of his own. The remainder were either reading books, washing clothes, dozing, or otherwise idling away their rest day.

  The sound of running feet shattered the calm as the skipper of ‘U for Uncle’ scampered up on the hunt for a spare crewmember. “Ken, we’re short of a nav for today’s trip. Barney’s been on the khasi all night. The usual – Delhi belly. Hell of a state, and he can’t get off the bog. Something nasty’s gone right through him.”

  They’d all suffered at one time or another and Ken sympathised. “Dusty’s off chasing moths, or something. I don’t know where he is right now. Does it have to be a nav?”

  “I don’t suppose so. It’s all going to be pretty straightforward.” He spotted Ken’s young co-plot. “Hey Keith – want to be a navigator for the day? Can you fill in for Barney?”

  “Dunno about that. Don’t want to upset the navigators’ union.”

  “Aw, c’mon. Weren’t you a Hurricane ace once? I thought you single-seat wizards could navigate as well as fly?”

  “Yeah, but that was different. What do Dakota navs do, anyway? And where’s this jaunt heading for?”

  The visiting skipper grinned. “You just need to keep the seat warm. Read a book. Sleep if you want to. A nav doesn’t need to know where he’s going. We’ll tell you when we get there and we’ll also tell you where we’ve been en route!”

  “Okay, I’ll do that for you. If you’ll tell me, just out of curiosity you understand, where we are actually going.”

  “Semarang. Routine run. Straight out and back. Taking supplies, bringing home a platoon of troops. Back in time for tea. Couldn’t be easier.”

  “Semarang? That’s where Nobby is, isn’t it?’ observed Ken. ‘Be nice to see him again.”

  Several of the boys had commented on meeting Sergeant Nobby Clark again recently. After leaving Thirty-One, he and his fellow air bombers had spent six or eight weeks in Chittagong doing non-jobs while awaiting what the RAF cryptically termed ‘disposal’. There had then followed journeys by river boat and train to Calcutta, followed by further moves back to Rangoon. By that time the war was over, and those who still had time to serve had been asked whether they had any choice of assignment – within the south-east Asia theatre of operations. Nobby, being an adventurous and inquisitive soul, had volunteered to go to Tokyo, but had been told in no uncertain terms that the home of their former enemies was now firmly in the American sphere of influence.

  However, his choice from what was on offer had been propitious and now, as the air liaison officer at the staging post of Semarang, their old bomb-aimer had fulfilled his threat to cross their paths again.

  Keith began to lever himself out of his camp chair. “Be nice to catch up a bit with Nobby. Right-oh, I’ll be with you in two shakes of a cat’s tail.”

  And with that he trotted off to get ready.

  In the corner, Freddie Underwood had been following the whole exchange. At the mention of Semaran
g his ears had pricked up. His budding romance, which his doubtful crew-mates were convinced was proceeding as much in his imagination as in reality, had nevertheless a breath of life about it. The last time he’d seen Nelli at Bandoeng, she had been very excited and had cornered him as soon as there had been a convenient break in her food service. The two of them had remained deep in conversation for some minutes, and when it had been time for Freddie’s aircraft to leave he’d been worked up enough to waste no time in letting them all into his secret.

  “Has she given you her phone number, then?” This from Keith.

  “Yeah – bush telegraph, I should think.” Dusty was more sceptical.

  “Now stop it you chaps.” Freddie was colouring up under their friendly mockery. “What she said is that she’s heard through her grapevine that her father could still be alive after all. It seems he might have been seen in an internment camp over in the east, and she’s asked whether I could confirm that – and if I find him get a message to him that she’s safe and well. I’ve looked up the location and it seems to be close to a little strip called Magalang. There’s bound to be an opportunity sometime, and I’m not going to let it pass by.”

  He’d chattered about the prospect the whole trip home, and now that opportunity seemed to be staring him in the face. He heaved himself out of his canvas chair and buttonholed ‘Uncle’s’ Skipper. “Would you mind if I hitched a lift too? I’ve got a little errand to perform at Magalang, which isn’t far from Semerang. If you could drop me off there and then pick me up again on your way home I should have plenty of time to do what I need to do.”

  “Ah – the way to a girl’s heart is through finding her father!” Word had got around the squadron of Freddie’s pending mission, and more good-natured ribbing ensued from both crews.

  “I’d be happy to do that of course, if you get a wiggle on.” ‘Uncle’s’ captain didn’t have any difficulty with the idea of adding an extra stop to each leg. “Take-off’s in 30 minutes. We need to get going.”