Storm at Sunset Page 8

  He’d seen, too, the same VJ Day newsreel that his future squadron colleagues had watched in their up-country location, and the scenes at home of jubilation as the crowds celebrated had done nothing for his mood. Indeed they’d totally ruined the only pleasure he’d had, his times in the cool picture house.

  ****

  As a ship, the SS Esperance Bay was by no means a vessel of the first line. Indeed, even amongst the worn-out army of rusty, time-expired merchant freighters which had been pressed into wartime troop-carrying service, she was near the bottom of the league. Displacing 14,000 tons or so, she was nearly twenty-five years old. Any signs of former grandness had long faded away and now she showed every day of her age.

  Her captain, though, was a seasoned old salt who knew the East Indies like the back of his hand and was well aware of the likely mindset of his passengers. Resigned at best, he thought, noting among them some sullen faces. He’d observed that they were mostly conscripts, and if he was any judge of situations, he thought many of them to be disillusioned at the prospect of further service. He resolved to raise the matter with his senior RAF counterpart.

  “I’m not aware of any difficulties,” replied the group captain after some thought. “None of the men has expressed any disquiet, and I’m sure that any personnel problems which do arise will be dealt with very adequately by my NCOs. No, captain, thank you for your concern but I believe we have a well-motivated little force on board.”

  Whether or not the skipper was reassured, he was satisfied that he had done his bit by raising the matter. And with that the two men agreed to let the subject drop. Shortly thereafter the ship cast off from its Madras berth and made for the open sea and, at least to its human RAF cargo, for waters unknown.

  The dirty old tub was eased by tugs away from its berth and set out to cross the southern Bay of Bengal before ploughing on through the Straits of Malacca between Malaya and Sumatra. The next morning she put into Singapore to pick up further stores and personnel earmarked for the coming operation. At anchor there, John leaned over the rail in the steaming heat and glumly surveyed the vast heaps of equipment on the quayside. He was no military expert and it didn’t register with him that much of the stuff was Japanese, waiting for decisions on whether to repatriate it, requisition what could be used by the Allies, or dump it. A student of world affairs would have found it remarkable, watching and listening to the carefree sounds of the busy port, to consider just how recently it had been in enemy hands. And that, until only a month ago, the British had been planning for a full-scale assault to recapture the island. But John didn’t – or couldn’t – consider any of these matters. His mind at that particular moment was fully occupied with his personal situation.

  The ship’s basic crew was only of a skeleton nature, so its military passengers were commandeered to make up the essential numbers. Or, as John Haley suspected, they were found work to occupy what would otherwise be idle time. Guard duty. Cookhouse duty. Lookout duty. Master-at-Arms squad members. Fire picket. Cleaning duty. The routine was incessant. Early in the day after they set sail from Singapore, he had been on lookout duty when an aircraft came into sight as a distant speck on the port beam. He hadn’t spotted it, but one of the other lookouts had covered for him, sparing his embarrassment. The ship’s company had been called to action stations, manning the solitary ack-ack gun which had been bolted to the foredeck of the civilian vessel as something of an afterthought. A number of the RAF Regiment troops on board had hastily been issued with rifles and had taken up firing positions waiting for the order. But before long it had become evident that the intruder was no threat to them. It had approached slowly, coming in no closer than two miles before turning off slightly and revealing the bulky silhouette of an RAF Catalina flying boat, and the gun crews had been stood down as a friendly ident message had flashed from the Aldis lamp at the aircraft’s mid-station.

  The ship had lost most of her way by the time the aircraft lined up for a pass down the port side, and the airmen had watched with interest as half a dozen packages splashed neatly into the water just forward of the beam. As they bobbed there in their floatation collars, the ship’s boat had been swung out over the side and lowered the eighty feet or so to the water, its crew quickly rowing the short distance and retrieving the sacks. With a final rock of its wings and wink from its signal lamp, the flying boat had set course towards from whence it had come and the ship had gathered way again and resumed routine.

  The packages contained orders for the staff as well as mail for the soldiers and airmen. Now, later in the day, the mail had been sorted, and a substantial bundle landed on the table in mess deck five. Letters from home were a rare and welcome commodity, and those who were lazing around off duty scrambled to see who had received post. There were catcalls as the men smelt the envelopes:

  “Oi, Jimmy – perfume for you, boy!”

  “Oh dear, Bill, this one smells of baby powder. Did you know about that?”

  Haley shuffled through the remaining pack and took the single letter with his name on it. He retreated and squatted uncomfortably in a corner of his mess deck, pausing for a while as though savouring the unopened envelope. Eventually, he slit the flap with a grimy thumbnail and pulled out the single sheet of notepaper. His head moved backwards and forwards along the lines as he read. The words seemed to form laboriously on the page; he had trouble ordering them, but eventually turned the sheet over and continued to the end. Despite the stifling heat below decks, his skin felt suddenly cold and clammy. The colour drained from his face. Nobody noticed his discomfort; they were too busy with their own stories from home. Stories of family doings. Of relatives’ weddings. Of friends being demobilised from the forces. Stories of some poignancy, not least because they impressed on the men how very, very far away they were from home. But nevertheless the kind of stories which individuals could share with their friends and comrades, taking solace from chewing over difficulties they all understood.

  But Aircraftman Haley’s news was not something he wished to share, and less still had he anyone with whom he could share it. After what seemed an interminable time staring sightlessly at the page, he stirred himself and turned the letter back to the beginning. It was written in a female hand and dated two months previously. It began: ‘Dear John. This is a difficult letter for me to write …’

  Once again he carefully read it to the end, going through the same routine of gazing intently at the paper as though he could, by some effort of will, change the words. A bunch of his mess-mates came off watch and, once again, a noisy scrum developed around the remaining pile of mail. But when the banter had died down and their letters had been read – when all the excited comments about sisters’ babies and dads’ new jobs had passed – John was still motionless in his corner.

  ‘This is a difficult letter for me to write …’ He had no doubt of the truth of that. But he didn’t find it helpful. He could half imagine the situation. He could picture the GI saying “I’m going home to the USA. Come with me.” He could imagine her refusing. Or at least he hoped she would have done. “I can’t. How could I possibly tell him …?” And he could envisage the man getting around her. The bastard would have been dismissive of him, far away to the east. “Just write to him. It’ll be the kindest way.”

  His mind continued to torture him. There was absolutely nothing he could do to change the situation. If any of his mess-mates noticed his demeanour, they said nothing. Perhaps it was merciful to leave him to himself. On the other hand, they’d never know whether he might have wanted to talk. At any rate, he reviewed his situation alone, and came to his decision. As the mess-deck quietened, he painstakingly wrote and addressed three letters: one to his parents; one to his only sister; and one to his wife. He re-folded the letter he’d received that day, replaced it in its envelope, and carefully stowed it with the newly-written notes in his kitbag. He folded his clothes and tidied his space. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was now nearly time for him to go on guard du
ty, and he pulled on his uniform before making his way on deck.

  CHAPTER 11

  Back in the sub-continent, Wing Commander Macnamara put the finishing touches to his packing and prepared to say goodbye to India. He wondered whether it would be for the last time. He’d left the country several times already as his squadron had leap-frogged from India to Burma and back again according to the ebb and flow of the ground fighting and the nature of their tasking. Now, though, it seemed they really were to leave. He’d enjoyed operating in the theatre. And he’d especially relished the quieter couple of months they’d recently experienced during their preparations for Operation Zipper. After years working with parts of his team dispersed in various up-country strips he’d been particularly pleased to have them all together for a while.

  He thought again about the landing on the Malayan peninsula they’d been preparing, and grinned to himself as he recalled the rumours which had continually circulated the camp. He hadn’t believed the more vivid ones, but on the other hand he’d lacked substantive information. And he was well aware that other, seemingly equally unbelievable, plans had actually been executed during the long years of conflict. Although he’d doubted on balance that the ditching of a whole squadron of Dakotas could possibly have been contemplated, he’d nevertheless kept an open mind. At any rate, given the extremes of range, he’d had little doubt that some of his aircraft and men would have ended up in the water if the operation had gone ahead.

  Now he was to lead his stream of twenty-plus Daks the 800 miles south-eastwards to Java. Each aircraft would be heavily laden with equipment and groundcrew; with fitters and their tools; with cooks and their stoves. The squadron was more or less self-contained and they’d route via Singapore, enjoying a night-stop on that newly liberated island. Momentarily he worried about how many of his men would get lost among the colony’s nightlife, but just as quickly he put those thoughts aside. His airmen had spent years in the jungle with their noses to the grindstone. They wanted to go home, and now they were to spend god knows how long in another remote location. The least they deserved was a few hours off wandering the bars and clubs of Singers.

  And he grinned as he thought of his interview earlier in the day with Ken Ticehurst and his co-pilot. He’d spoken to them in response to a signal he’d received from the personnel department regarding the decision of the colonial governments to recall their people who’d been serving on loan to the RAF.

  “There you are, flight sergeant; it’s in black and white.” He handed over the message to the disbelieving Ticehurst.

  Ray Fox craned over his skipper’s shoulder as the two men read the signal.

  “Don’t they know we’ve still got a job to do here?” commented the co-pilot.

  “Sounds as though our governments think the job’s done,” agreed the Canadian. “But the signal’s pretty vague about the how and the when. ‘Unit administrative staffs are to compile nominal rolls and inform this HQ,’ it says. I’m quite happy where I am for now and I shouldn’t be surprised if this little bit of paper gets lost in the jungle amongst the rest of the administrative trivia the squadron receives.”

  “I agree,” said Ray. “And in any case, there are thousands like us in hundreds of different billets. Even if you replied immediately it could easily be months before they got us sorted. I’m with my skipper.”

  “If you’re sure then,” said the squadron commander, taking back the proffered signal. “I’d be delighted to keep you of course. But don’t discount the chance you’re being offered to get back to your homes – and possibly de-mob. You especially, sergeant. After all, by the time we reach Java we’ll be within spitting distance of Australia.”

  The two men looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “No sir, we’re here to do a job. I doubt if you could manage without us.”

  Mac grinned. He had any number of people who would be only too keen to return home tomorrow if they were given the chance. And now these two were asking to stay. They were good men. And it was, he acknowledged, almost impossible to keep on top of the endless stream of administrative instructions while operating in such primitive areas.

  “You’re probably right! Very well, gentlemen; I’m grateful for your loyalty. I’m sure I’ll have no difficulty in arranging to have the signal mislaid.” He screwed up the piece of paper and lobbed it into the bin. With a grin he watched as the two pilots went on their way.

  ****

  The first of the Dakotas touched down firmly on RAF Kemajoran’s uneven runway and rolled to a near standstill before being marshalled away into its parking position. Wing Commander Macnamara climbed stiffly out of the left-hand seat, stretching after the long leg down from Singapore, and he was out of the aircraft in time to watch the second one touch-down. His twenty-odd aircraft would land at five minute intervals for the next two and a half hours, and he mentally thanked the Lord that, as far as could be ascertained by the time he had departed from Singers, there had been no reports from either military or civilian police of any of his airmen having been incarcerated or found lying in monsoon drains.

  There had certainly been hangovers though, he knew full well. But he was confident that the lads would have more or less slept them off in flight and would now be ready to get down to whatever needed to be done on their arrival: aircraft unloaded and serviced; tents set up; kit stowed. As far as he was aware his squadron was to be accommodated partly on base and partly in a variety of requisitioned facilities downtown. He’d seen as he’d approached for landing that Java’s capital city, Batavia, lay less than ten miles distant, so he’d no fears on the score of accessibility. And as he looked around at the various fighter types parked in adjacent bays, he mentally gave thanks for the Dakota’s other great virtue: if the crew’s lodging wasn’t immediately available, they could doss down on the cabin floor.

  ****

  Before long, Macnamara was whisked away by the station commander to the small tri-service headquarters that had been set up in a couple of rooms in the Hotel des Indes, previously one of Batavia’s grandest gathering places and a regular focus of the pre-war Dutch colonial social scene. After he’d been introduced to a couple of the resident staff officers, a bottle of gin was produced and they sat down at a table bare of all but the necessary glasses and ashtrays. Business opened with a run-down of the background to the task the Dakota squadron would be facing.

  “The job’s essentially a humanitarian one, Brian, ferrying released POWs from internment camps. You’ll collect them from up-country strips and fly them to Kemajoran (he pronounced it Kem-eye-ran) where they’ll be assessed and, if necessary, treated. We believe that many of them will wish to return to their native countries, and they’ll be embarked in due course in ships for home. Some will be able to walk, although I would expect them to be a little frail. Some will need medical attention, and a substantial number will be stretcher cases. You probably know all this already.”

  “Yes. We’re well set up for the task. Towards the end of our time in Burma we flew lots of similar missions, and we’ve come complete with our own air ambulance teams. We’re ready for anything you can throw at us.”

  “That’s good, because the job’s not as simple as it might appear at first sight. To explain why I’ll have to give you something of the political background to our situation here.”

  “Aha – I knew there had to be a catch!”

  “There always is. Now the point is this. The Javanese are happy enough to have us here, as they want the camps cleared and closed. But they don’t want their former masters back to re-establish the Netherlands East Indies; they fear the start of re-colonisation. Now, whether or not the Dutch have any realistic ambitions to rebuild their influence here we just don’t know. But given that their own country has been occupied by the Germans for the past five years I suspect that their main focus for the immediate future will be on sorting out their homeland. And in any case it’s not what the Dutch really intend to do about Java that’s the re
al question. Right now it’s what the Indonesians believe to be the Dutch intentions.”

  “Quite. And I suppose they saw the Jap occupation as a form of colonisation, too. So one way and another I can see they’ll have had their fill of it.”

  “True. Anyway, the Japanese encouraged the Indonesians to declare independence as the war ended and to form a local government under Doctor Soekarno. The Dutch, of course, don’t recognise this at present, but it nevertheless seems to be working reasonably well. It’s not, though, moving quickly or decisively enough to satisfy the various nationalist factions. These seem to hold the influence in the countryside outside Batavia and are proving a real thorn in our flesh. Not only do they want the Dutch out but they don’t want us here either. In fact at this moment we don’t really know whether they dislike us because they see us as agents of the Dutch or whether they simply regard all Europeans as a single entity; in other words it’s possible they actually perceive us and the Dutch as one and the same thing. And, as in any situation in which uncoordinated dissidents are operating, there are undoubtedly some who are taking advantage of the chaos and disorder to create trouble for its own sake. Who knows, it might even suit Soekarno to have renegades taking action for his people by proxy. At any rate it hardly matters to us what the motives are. The fact is that there are forces operating in guerrilla fashion, and some areas of the country are bloody dangerous. A British army brigadier was killed by a mob down the coast at Soerabaja not so long ago while trying to negotiate.”

  Macnamara’s expression grew thoughtful while he digested this information. He had certainly had no conception of the true depth of the anti-colonial animosity felt by the Indonesians for the Dutch, and now he was determined to clarify in his mind the intricacies of the political situation. “This is complicated. You said the Japanese encouraged the Indonesians to declare independence. Did they leave any other surprises for us?”