Storm at Sunset Read online

  “Sure thing, skip. With a foaming frostie in hand, I could almost imagine I was back on Bondi Beach. Well …” he looked around him with some doubt “well almost …”

  Later, Dusty lay awake in his tent. By their very nature, neither tents nor bashas were soundproof, and he couldn’t escape the sounds of the jungle. And, far more volubly, he registered the noises of his fellow men. Of bodily functions, often in uncomfortably close proximity. But more than that on this particular night came the sound of the squadron male voice choir drifting through the jungle from a basha somewhere on the far side of the camp. Insistently, singing rose and fell in the light airs, together with laughter between the verses. There was no escaping it, but surprisingly, thought Dusty, the harmony didn’t sound at all bad. Perhaps there were Welshman amongst the choir’s numbers, for the singing seemed to have all the fervour of a rugby crowd. Or maybe it was just the lubrication of the beer ration which was aiding the men’s efforts.

  The navigator registered that, oddly for airmen, the choir was singing about a ship. A good ship, in fact, named Venus. He knew the words well, as did British servicemen everywhere, and as he marked each bawdy line he amused himself by imagining how he might relay them to his pupils in language more acceptable to the ethos of his school back home. Or perhaps, he surmised, boys being boys, his youngsters would already be familiar with the more colourful version.

  Not to be dissuaded, he continued mentally setting them their homework. ‘Discuss and analyse the contents of the following passage. It concerns a vessel which is evidently not in first class condition, and the lyrical prose describes its adventures in detail. There is amongst its various machinery a piece of steel which moves in a rotary manner. This motion becomes uncontrollable. Faster and faster goes the machinery until it eventually blows up. The piece continues with a lament bemoaning the length of overseas tours. However, by contrast, it ends with a valedictory blessing on all NCOs and their sons.’

  Dusty chuckled to himself in the shadows of his tent. Around him, human bodies stretched and scratched, snored and coughed. The exam question would, he decided, undoubtedly continue by inviting the candidates to ‘… make reference to the style of English employed by the author and consider its relevance in the setting of the Indian scrub.’

  The choir paused for breath and further refreshment. Was it just a drunken racket, Dusty asked himself? He decided it was more than that. The energy of the performance was coloured with overtones of comradeship, of shared experience far from home. The night wore on with further musical offerings, but of diminishing intensity and volume. Eventually, overcome by exhaustion, the choristers dispersed to their respective tents and the camp fell silent.

  ****

  Training and planning for Operation Zipper continued, although hampered by lack of firm information on its nature. In the absence of detail, and in the finest traditions of the British services, rumours abounded. Looking at maps and measuring out the distance to likely drop zones or landing spots, many of them deduced that they’d be heading off on one-way missions.

  “I’ve heard we’re likely to be ditching in the Bay of Bengal after dropping the troops. The survival equipment section’s been ordered to check all the life-rafts and floats.”

  “Relying on the navy for a pick up? Ho, ho! Fat chance of them turning up.”

  “Yeah. But there are unlimited numbers of aircrew available now, so we’re probably regarded as expendable. Not to mention plenty of Daks.”

  One thing on which they could all agree was that, all in all, this was not a very appetising prospect. But the rumour mill was never able to put any flesh on the bones of the theories. And in any case, the complete absence of allied forces in the Tilda area who could, even remotely, be regarded as candidates for an airborne invasion of western Malaya suggested that there was no imminent danger of the squadron being tasked with those over-long sorties.

  Alternative theories had it that the Daks were planned to be routed back through Burma to pick up their troops, before making their way down the coast and staging through Penang Island off the west coast of Malaya. Assuming, that was, that the navy would have taken Penang by then.

  But if anyone actually knew the precise detail of the plan, they were not yet ready to reveal it. So the airmen trained and waited. They waited for paratroops and/or gliders to join them; one or the other would have given them an inkling of the likely format of the mission. But none ever came.

  An additional unknown was that the men had no idea of how long, once it started, the operation would take to complete. Nor, with the lack of information available on how the Americans were progressing in the Pacific, could they tell whether Operation Zipper was envisaged as merely a further stage in pushing the Japanese out of the occupied lands or whether it might be a part of the final mopping up that would end the war.

  So the boys kept themselves busy as best they could, and the rumours continued to circulate. Long years of fighting had led to airmen generally looking on the gloomy side when charting the possible way ahead, and most of the supposition was far from optimistic.

  “How long are we going to be here?” One man was considering the problem. “There are millions of Japs, aren’t there? They fight to the last soldier, so it seems. It could go on forever.”

  They were resigned. But what made it doubly hard was that, with the mail chain being so long and slow, they were still receiving letters from home describing street parties following VE Day.

  “Look at this,” came in one erk. “My missus is telling me that she danced with every man in the street that night.” He paused as his eyes followed on down the page. “Oh wait – that’s all right. She says – and here he read out loud: ‘… but only if they were grandfathers too old to have been away fighting. I still love you, my darling, and I’m thinking of you day and night and praying for your safe return …’

  He clasped the letter to his lips and kissed it, grinning broadly. “So I’ll be all right then!”

  His audience cheered, celebrating with him.

  Chota chipped in. “My lad Eric’s three years old today, and I’ve never even seen him.” He scrabbled for a crumpled photo in his wallet. “There, that was him on his second birthday. Lovely little chap isn’t he? Got his dad’s nose, wouldn’t you say?” And he profiled his own unlovely article for the basha’s inspection.

  Ribald comments flew in all directions as they discussed both the unattractiveness of the proffered nose and the complete lack of resemblance between it and the cherubic vision in the grainy picture.

  “That baby’s got what’s known as ‘milkman’s nose’ I reckon! Do you know your milkman Chota?”

  “Three years old? And didn’t you celebrate your fourth anniversary overseas last month?”

  The victim spluttered as he replaced the picture in his wallet. “You’re just jealous, you lot. Of course the little fellow’s mine!”

  “Now listen to this,” piped up another of those who’d received letters that day. “Me mum says: ‘… young Reggie … (that’s me little brother, he explained to anybody who was listening) … young Reggie has been demobbed now and has got his old job back at the printing works. I do hope, son, you’ll be as lucky when your time comes …’” He paused for a moment in the stifling heat of the Indian night. “Yes, Mum,” he murmured. “So do I. So do bloody I.”

  It was a sentiment they could all echo. And for a few moments, a thoughtful silence fell over the little band of airmen. To a man, they felt very, very far from home.

  ****

  “Scalpel please, Bert.”

  Corporal Bert Edwards passed over the instrument and watched as the medical officer expertly lanced the crimson boil on the naked backside before him. A punkah wallah flailed away the flies that had managed to dodge the makeshift screening in the improvised medical tent, creating a light mid-day breeze in the stifling air.

  Bert dabbed away at the flowing blood and pus as pained grunts erupted from the clenched lips of the afflicte
d one.

  “Antiseptic, please.”

  Bert splashed a liberal dose of stinging fluid into the wound, and the victim jumped afresh as the doctor’s needle and surgical thread nipped the two sides of the gaping hole tightly together.

  “Not much longer now, Hodgkins.” The doc finished off his work.

  The corporal rapidly secured a dressing over the wound and the doc slapped the backside.

  “That’s you now, Hodgkins. Light duties for a day, then back to your normal work. And keep that bum of yours well away from dirty places in the future. Next please!”

  Keep away from dirty places. Easier said than done. Not that there was a great deal of tempting nightlife in the Tilda area to attract the airmen. But the primitive conditions, together with the eternal sweat, made keeping clean a challenge. Nevertheless, the patient mumbled “Yes sir” as he gingerly slid off the operating table. After carefully feeling the offended part, he pulled up his pants and made his escape.

  “Just the one more today, doc” commented Bert, after consulting his scribbled list.

  Corporal Edwards had been with 31 Squadron for nearly a year now, and was frustrated with his current work. A keen and well-educated Scotsman with a presence to match his considerable frame, he had joined up as a medical orderly and had become one of the pioneers of the air ambulance service. He’d found his casualty evacuation employment on Dakotas in Europe around the D-Day period fulfilling and rewarding, and had followed that up with a posting to the Far East to set up similar arrangements there. Before the arrival of Edwards and others of his specialisation, aircrews had had to do the best they could by way of first aid for their passengers, and there was no doubt that things had changed markedly for the better with the arrival of the flight medical orderlies.

  Towards the end of Thirty-One’s time in Burma, Bert had had been working at full capacity tending to wounded soldiers being brought back from the front on casevac flights, and later in looking after prisoners of war released from camps as the Japanese forces retreated. Often they’d land at some bumpy hideaway in the Arakan hills for a load of exhausted soldiers from the ‘forgotten’ 14th Army. Bert would almost feel ashamed at his relatively well-fed and fit state when facing these haggard and ragged campaigners. Many were walking skeletons, needing careful tending throughout. Others were almost too weak to heave themselves up the aircraft’s steps, and would spend an uncomfortable flight slumped across the makeshift canvas seating.

  Now, for the time being during the squadron’s preparation period in India, there was no airborne work for him to do, and he’d been commandeered by the camp doctor as an assistant. Useful employment, but he needed more than prickly heat, minor infections, insect bites and football scrapes and bruises to get his teeth into.

  CHAPTER 8

  Now there was another rumour. No-one knew its origin, but the bush telegraph had it that something extraordinary had happened in Japan. That a weapon of hitherto undreamed-of power had been used against the enemy. And the story, short as it was on detail, of course concluded that they would at last all soon be going home.

  The squadron commander generally disregarded rumours. He was an old hand, and knew that any group of men such as he commanded was bound to produce a steady stream of wishful thinking and duff gen. The greater the concentration of airmen and the less they had to occupy them, the more outrageous the supposition.

  But this story was too big for Macnamara to ignore. Somehow he sensed there might be some truth to it, and his enquiry almost immediately brought signalled confirmation from his far-away headquarters:

  ‘American forces dropped a new and devastating type of weapon on the Japanese city of Hiroshima on 6th August, and a further one on Nagasaki on the 9th. Your operational flying planned for tomorrow is cancelled. The Air Officer Commanding will be visiting you on the 16th to brief you fully.’

  The date now was the 14th, and the squadron didn’t need to wait two days for the AOC to tell them that Japan’s formal surrender would be announced soon. Once again, the jungle drums were way ahead of the official announcement, and the boys knew immediately that the cancellation of ops on the following day marked the end of the war.

  A party atmosphere at once seized the basha area and spread uncontrollably. Macnamara was wary of allowing it to develop without official confirmation, but knew equally well that attempting to stop it was as futile as King Canute’s bid to turn back the tide. So he turned a blind eye while the massive celebration got under way.

  The supply officer dispensed all the regular stocks of beer – and found some others. The survival equipment section put on a fireworks display with the assorted flares and signal cartridges they had available. Half of those, either damp or life-expired, failed to ignite, and the boys cynically celebrated their good luck in not having had to use them following ditching on the allegedly planned one-way missions on Operation Zipper. Despite the unreliability of the flares, however, sod’s law determined that the burning remains of one would land on a storage basha, which burnt down to the accompaniment of huge cheers.

  There were very sore heads the following morning, and Bert was kept busy in the dispensary with remedies as well as with treatments for severe insect bites, for many had slept in the open where they’d fallen rather than under their usual mosquito nets.

  The AOC visited as promised, and if he noted any sign of the previous day’s revelries he said nothing.

  “Congratulations, wing commander. You and your men have had a fine war. But I take it you’ll be more interested at this point in planning for the future.”

  “Thank you sir, we’re proud of our contribution, however small it’s been in the overall scheme of things. And yes, now that the war’s over we’re certainly keen to look ahead.”

  “Well, you’ll not be surprised to hear that plans are somewhat chaotic at HQ just now, what with the mass of outstanding issues thrown up by the end of hostilities. I can tell you, though, that Thirty-One is to continue with the evacuation mission you started in Burma. But this time you’ll be operating further to the south-east. Your new deployment will be to Java.”

  “Java, sir. I didn’t know we had Brits imprisoned there.”

  “As I understand it the internees are mostly not British. Before the war, of course, it used to be a colony of Holland. Hence the internees are mainly from the Netherlands. But for now at any rate the Dutch East Indies lie within our sphere of responsibility, so this task has fallen to us. To be truthful, we don’t have many details at this present time. But I can tell you that you’ll be joining number 904 Wing which is on the move there now. It will include reconnaissance, ground attack and fighter aircraft as well as your people.”

  “But, the war is over. I thought this was just a transport and casevac mission.”

  “Yes, that’s so in simple terms. But it’s all a bit of an unknown quantity. There’s a serious lack of information about the state of play on the ground down there, so the need to establish a recce element more or less speaks for itself. And we’re already picking up intelligence that there are almost certainly Japanese forces still in the area. What condition they’re in, and quite how they’re likely to react, is a big question. And as for the local Javanese, we really don’t know.”

  “What about rotating our own men, sir? Some of them have been out east for years. They’re tired and war-weary. They deserve to be replaced.”

  “In due course we’ll get a few home. But shipping’s the main problem. We’re desperately short, and there are hundreds of thousands of men in the queue to go home. And in the case of your squadron the main priority is getting you to Java and seeing you started on the task. As we understand it, there’s a huge and increasingly urgent refugee problem building up there. I’m afraid that rotating your people is, for now, largely in the ‘too difficult’ category.”

  “I understand that sir. But it’s not just that they’ve been operating at very high intensity for so long. Like the majority of servicemen in this theatre
, I imagine they know that many thousands have already got home following the end of the European war and they sense that countless more will do so before they get their chance. While they’re still out here they worry about their jobs, their wives and their sweethearts. There must be thousands in the same boat, and I can imagine it leading to restlessness if we’re not careful. Have you heard of any discontent of that type, sir?”

  The AOC thought for a minute. “No, Macnamara, I don’t think I have.”

  Immediately the words were out the AOC was conscious that his tone had been altogether too cold and brusque. He had a high regard for this squadron commander, and he recognised that it was purely concern for his men's welfare that had turned the conversation along this track. Nothing wrong with that, he thought, and was further heartened by the reply.

  “I wasn’t suggesting there’s any cause for alarm here, sir. I’m certain there won’t be a problem on Thirty-One. The lads will continue to look forward to going home, but I’ll make sure in the meantime they understand the value of the task we’re to carry out. They’re good chaps; they’ll knuckle down.”

  “That’s the spirit. And what about you, Brian? Are things well on the family front? You’ve got a wife at home, I take it?”

  “Yes, and she’s fine. In any case I’ve got a permanent career. I more or less accepted the ticket and all that goes with it. I was thinking more of the conscripted men when I raised the point. But as I said, we’ll manage.”

  ****

  Within a short time, the newsreel of London’s VJ-day celebrations was showing at the camp’s open-air cinema. The King and Queen rode in a carriage down the Mall to the cheers of a teeming throng. Churchill had been voted out by that time, and now it was Prime Minister Atlee who stood on the balcony of Buckingham Palace with the royal family acknowledging the crowds. A recording of the King’s radio broadcast was included with the newsreel, and many a watching eye was moist as the airmen listened to the words.