Storm at Sunset Read online

  “Our hearts are overflowing, as are your own.” And the men fell silent at the next line: “… Yet there is not one of us who has experienced this terrible war who does not realise that we shall feel its inevitable consequences long after we have all forgotten our rejoicings today.”

  By this time they were well prepared to depart on their next mission, and as they watched the flickering pictures in that jungle clearing thousands of miles from home, each knew that the King’s mention of ‘inevitable consequences’ would hold a personal resonance for him until he eventually got home.

  Later, at a makeshift table comprising a plank rigged between two packing boxes in a tent, an airman was finishing off a letter home in a bid to catch the outbound mail before he departed for Java.

  ‘We’re off soon, but I can’t tell you exactly where, only that it’s somewhere in the Dutch East Indies. Wherever that might be. And what it’s got to do with us I don’t know. But even though the war’s over, there are still missions to be done, and we’ve been picked out for one of those. I don’t know quite how long it will last, but I can’t imagine it going on for too long. Then, hopefully, I’ll be setting course back home. Keep your chin up, my darling. I’m always thinking of you. Your ever-loving …’

  CHAPTER 9

  A group of erks stood by as ‘E for Easy’ taxied towards its dispersal. The techies were ready to refuel and top up the systems fluids, while a small party of loaders checked their trolleys prior to stowing the cargo for the aircraft’s next mission.

  “He’s going some, corp.”

  The dirty old Dak was storming towards the parking area and, as one man, they took a prudent few steps backward as it swung onto its spot. As the props spluttered to a stop, the fuselage door flew open and the crew jumped to the ground. Keith Smith was in the lead, and he was shaking like a leaf.

  “That’s it. The weather’s bad enough. The jungle wildlife is just too much.”

  “Now take it easy, sir.” Chota offered the agitated co-pilot a cigarette. “Tell us exactly what the problem seems to be.”

  Keith took the proffered fag and lit it gratefully, cupping a trembling hand around the flame. He drew deeply.

  “The skipper’s gone stark raving mad. In fact you’re all mad out here.”

  The corporal glanced at the others, surreptitiously raising his eyebrows. They’d seen cases like this before.

  “Now you just sit down here, sir.” He indicated a nearby packing case, sweeping the dust and debris off it with the back of his hand. “We’re listening.”

  “He’s had his revolver out in there. The flight instruments are shot to hell. There’s a snake. Might be still alive, for all I know. I’m not going near that aircraft again.”

  At that moment came a crack and a tinkle of glass as another round was discharged in the confined space of the cockpit. Instinctively they all ducked.

  “You see what I mean? Shrapnel flying everywhere.” As usual for aircrew, Keith was wearing shorts. At the recollection of events on board he clutched his most important bits. “I don’t know which was more dangerous; the snake or the skipper. And how close the rounds came to me I don’t care to think.” Keith got up and made off in the direction in which the rest of his crew had already disappeared.

  The skipper’s face appeared at the open cockpit side panel, blowing the remaining wisps of smoke from the muzzle of his point three eight Smith and Wesson.

  “It’s all right, corp, I definitely got him that time. Come up and see.”

  The engineers gingerly clambered aboard and made their way forward to the cockpit, where a mess of glass, flesh, blood and bits of instrument panel lay strewn. Daylight was showing clearly through a couple of ragged holes in the side wall. The captain was sitting in the left-hand seat, calmly re-loading.

  “So what’s happened here, sir?” Chota was taking in the scene.

  Ted Costain indicated some bits of meat on the flight deck floor. “Snake!”

  “Ah!” The techies retreated slightly.

  “We were trolling along happily at 8,000 feet when out of the blue this head came waving out from behind the control yoke on the co-pilot’s side.”

  “How’d it get there?”

  “I don’t bloody know. The outbound cargo was loaded last night – rice and flour. So I suppose mice followed the trail of spilled food and the snake followed the mice.”

  “What sort of snake?”

  “Does it matter? A bloody great big one, that’s all I know. I don’t study these things.” The skipper was growing irritable. “But I’ll tell you this; the head had a large hood. So I worked on the assumption that it was a cobra. And dangerous.”

  “Yes.” The corporal edged backwards again.

  “It’s all right – it’s dead now. Entirely and indisputably dead. But it definitely wasn’t dead up there. Young Keith started to get out of his seat, but the beast had its eyes on him and it was rising up all the time. I reckoned it would get him if he moved much more, so I whispered to him to freeze where he was while I drew my gun.”

  “Blimey.”

  “I fired, but missed first time. Had another pot and hit it I think, but didn’t kill it. It disappeared down behind the yoke, and my loyal assistant was out of his seat in a flash, never to be seen again.”

  “So you flew the kite back and landed.”

  “Yep. Most of the instruments were still working, although there were a couple out. Anyway, I got us on the ground, and as I was shutting down I caught a glimpse of the blighter moving out again from under the right-hand seat. So I had another go, and this time there was no doubt. There he is.” And he gestured to the well between the co-pilot’s seat and the control yoke, where lay the headless body of a substantial snake. “Sorry about the mess, but I’m sure you’ll be able to patch things up. Let’s hope my young friend has simmered down. As far as I recall, the last thing he said to me was that he was never flying with me again. Ungrateful, really, considering I probably saved his life!” And with that, he levered himself up and made his way off to catch up with his crew.

  Chota surveyed the damage. “Yes, sir, I’m sure we’ll be able to patch things up.” This to the retreating back.

  And to his team: “Arthur, you’re not squeamish, are you? Get some hot water and soap and attend to the carnage in here.”

  Brownlow nodded and was off.

  “And Jim, see what stores can do about a new turn and slip indicator and a compass. Oh, and while you’re at it, we’ll need plenty of bodge tape to seal up all the holes. I’m going to give the control runs a thorough check over; let’s just hope none of the wires have been broken or frayed. Right-oh, lads, let’s get to it.”

  ****

  As Ken’s crew finished the debrief following one of their last missions from Tilda, the squadron adjutant stuck his head round the flap of the tent.

  “Can I have a word?”

  “Certainly. We’re done here. What can we do for you?”

  “We’ve just had a signal from HQ telling us that all the air bombers are being posted off Thirty-One.”

  “Oh no.” It was Nobby. “After all the training. And having just about got settled in. What’s this all about?”

  “Yes,” echoed Dusty. “We’re only just getting used to each other. They can’t do that.”

  “I know,” said the adj. “It’s a damned shame. But the point is that with the Japs more or less out of the picture; air dropping’s becoming almost unnecessary. The job for now seems to be extracting POWs and internees from the camps, and that means we’ll mainly be landing at forward strips. Thus not much more air dropping – and therefore no more air bombers. I’m sorry.”

  “So what’s to be done with us?” wailed the distraught Nobby.

  “Now take it easy,” continued the adj. “The idea is that the whole bunch of you are to go to a transit camp near Chittagong. I should look at it as a bit of a free holiday if I were you. From there you’ll be found other jobs elsewhere in the Far East. I�
�ve no doubt that there’ll be flying opportunities somewhere.”

  Ken was thoughtful. “Did you know, adj, that my crew doesn’t have a wireless operator?”

  “I say old chap! No I didn’t. How did that one slip through the net?”

  Ken briefly recounted the story of the Swindon cinema and the broken leg. “Nobby’s been doing the job from the start. And very well too, I might add. So why change things?”

  “Well ordinarily, if we were short, I might have been tempted to make a case for young Nobby to stay in the WOp position on a permanent basis,” said the adj. “But as it happens we’ve had a spare WOp posted in this week. And HQ were quite clear that the air bombers are to go. So although your idea’s a good one I’m afraid it doesn’t really change anything.”

  “Sorry, Nobby, but it was worth a try anyway,” said Ken. “It looks like the parting of the ways, old son.”

  “Very well then. I suppose I’ll have to go. But I warn you, chaps, if there are jobs to be had in east it won’t be the last you’ll see of me!”

  Dusty smiled. If Nobby didn’t know, then he did. The Far East was a very big place, and the chances of their paths crossing again were minimal. It looked like adieu rather than au revoir.

  “Come on, old fellow, I’ll get you a beer. We can’t have you leaving us without seeing you off properly.” He put his arm around his friend’s shoulders and steered him off in the direction of the bar.

  The skipper and the adj remained for a moment.

  “Shame about that,” said the adj. “Nice bloke. Anyway, I’ve got just the chap for your crew. Sergeant Freddie Underwood. He’s served with us before but has been down with a nasty bout of malaria. It’s kept him out for months, but he’s chipper now. At least he’ll be chipper until he finds out that the staff have started him on a whole new tour now that he’s fit again. He’ll be livid when he discovers! Anyway, I’ll get him to make contact.”

  And with that he was gone. Ken sat for a few moments and pondered the fleeting nature of friendships and acquaintanceships thrown up by the war. But before his thoughts ran too deep the need for a beer overtook him and he set off to join the others at their impromptu farewell party.

  CHAPTER 10

  Three weeks later it was still chaos in the Calcutta PDC when John Haley returned, as directed by the duty sergeant, to receive further orders. The end of the war in the east, which had occurred in the interim, now made things worse than ever, with tens of thousands of homeward-bound servicemen swamping the facility. Even the harassed clerk with whom Haley eventually came face to face had the look of a man seeking a way out. At any rate, now that peace had broken out, a man with a posting to an operational squadron seemed, to the clerk, to rank infinitely lower in importance than the masses who needed to be repatriated. John handed over his drafting order.

  “Accommodation’s at a premium here, and we’ve still no knowledge of the precise timing of Thirty-One’s next move. But we do know that they’re heading further south-east in theatre – I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you any more. Anyway, the instructions I have in these orders are …" and here he riffled importantly through sheaves of paper “… that personnel for 31 Squadron are to proceed to Madras and await onward shipment. Go over and join that queue there,” and he indicated with his pencil the general direction of a scrum of airmen further down the room. “You’ll be given a voucher which will entitle you to a meal. Then you should head for the next shed where you’ll receive a rail warrant for your journey to Madras. Report to the PDC there on arrival.” With a dismissive gesture he handed back the posting memo, before transferring his attention to a point somewhere over Haley’s shoulder. “Next please,” he bellowed.

  The disconsolate airman reluctantly turned away, strongly suspecting that the clerk had been only too glad to shuffle him on without giving away one of his precious billets. It had taken him several hours to reach the head of that queue, and he’d very much have liked to have received at least a piece of official paper authorising the next step in the move. He knew that, without it, he would have to start once more with his explanation when – and if – he reached the next desk. But looking back at the scrum he’d so recently vacated he saw there was less than a snowflake in hell’s chance of getting back to the clerk with his supplementary question. Reluctantly, he dragged his kitbag over to the next location and resigned himself to another long wait.

  During the interminable process of reaching the head of this new queue there was little enough to do but swat flies – and ample time to mull over the significance of the words he’d heard thus far. And one phrase was bothering him particularly. ‘Onward shipment.’ He was certain he’d heard correctly. But was he right to take it literally? After all, he told himself, the term ‘shipped’ could relate to almost any form of transport. But somehow he felt a grim foreboding that a ship would indeed be involved, and the prospect filled him with dread. His initial move to India from England had been by sea, and he’d thoroughly hated the entire, lengthy voyage in the clapped-out old troopship. Crammed below decks with a seething mass of enlisted humanity, he’d existed uncomfortably amongst the stenches and sounds of his fellow servicemen. They’d slept each night in swinging hammocks, heads hard up against the next man’s stinking feet, until the NCO in charge had decided that it was time for the next day to begin. And at that point they’d all had to get up simultaneously and stow their beds for there was no space to mix hammocks and the tables, around each of which fourteen or sixteen men would spend the day eating and playing cards.

  The old trooper had rolled about uncomfortably, creaking and groaning as she’d laboured her ponderous way across the Bay of Biscay and onwards around the southern tip of Africa. In the tropics the sunsets had been fabulous. But to enjoy sunsets to the full one needed a partner with whom to share them, and his shipmates hadn’t fitted the bill at all. Worse still, the ship’s ventilation had been hopelessly inadequate for the numbers she’d had on board. The steaming hot voyage had gone on seemingly interminably and John shivered, almost feeling a whiff of nausea at the thought of it all. He was not to be sent on a troopship again, was he? Surely he wasn’t …?

  The heat in the crowd grew even more oppressive. Languid fans in the PDC were not doing anything to shift the air. Here and there raised voices told of tempers fraying, but for the most part the men in the queues were well disciplined, accepting their lot in resigned silence. Throughout Haley’s quiet life he had never found that shouting helped improve situations, so he went along with the silent majority – and simply hoped that a ship it would not be.

  But Haley was not in the habit of having things go his way. His star was far from its zenith, and he was indeed bound for a troopship again. First, though, there was another rail journey to be endured, this time one of two and a half days to Madras. Experienced now in the ways of Indian troop trains, John was better prepared for this second endurance test, and he’d somehow managed to squirrel away a small hoard of American k-rations to keep him going: cream crackers; concentrated chocolate; hard, dry biscuits; and tins of Spam. Not exactly a culinary delight, but nevertheless a welcome change from British powdered eggs and potato. Something to be jealously guarded, as well as useful bartering material. All in all, he arrived at his destination in considerably better shape than he’d reached Calcutta. And things continued to look up as he received the information at the Madras PDC that he’d be accommodated in a proper stone-built billet with decent food, running water, and good latrines. There was still no news of the duration of his stay, but he was not too disturbed by this. He now had a chit to join a pay parade, which would afford him ready cash for the first time since he’d left Jodhpur – and he further understood that there was a supply facility available which would exchange his tattered old boots and socks for some much-needed new ones. He’d also heard that there were air-conditioned cinemas showing recent films. Never mind the movies, he thought – he wasn’t particularly interested on the details of the programme. But
he knew there was no better treatment for prickly heat than to sit through a full two showings in an air-conditioned picture house. Yes, he resolved; he was going to make the most of his time in Madras.

  His spell of relative contentment ended within a week, though, when he received further orders to join the good ship Esperance Bay bound for Java. In fact he’d guessed for a while that something like this was on the cards. Personnel from a number of units were apparently converging on Madras with, seemingly, the expectation of heading for a developing operation in Java. RAF staff officers; RAF Regiment troops; air traffic controllers; logistics personnel; cooks; storemen; engineers; administrators. In fact all the trades necessary to set up an RAF station. The talk around the NAAFI was of repatriating POWs, and when a number of airmen arrived who were either already attached to or, like him, recently drafted to, number 31 Dakota Squadron, he’d been more or less able to build the picture for himself.

  And it wasn’t a picture which suited him. Indeed his worst fears were being confirmed. Another ship. Even further eastwards. And an open-ended prospect of further service with no repatriation date likely in the foreseeable future. While in Madras he’d been writing every few days to his wife, reasonably cheerfully. But he’d received little by way of reply. Small wonder, he preferred to tell himself; what with his own uncertain movements and the general chaos in the area it was hardly surprising that mail wasn’t getting through. But secretly he recognised reality and feared the worst, and he felt utterly unable to do anything about the situation. He had little option but to be washed along by the tide. His spirits sank day by day. He had no-one, really, to talk to. Not even an officer. He’d seen the unit padré but had come away with the impression that he was merely being ticked off from a list. It had been no use.