Except they were not there.
His stomach gave a lurch. ‘Shit!’
‘Lost something?’ asked Rossi.
Torrance lowered his voice so the others would not hear. ‘I had two tickets on a ship to Batavia.’
‘On a ship to… ye mean you’re planning to desert?’ Rossi spluttered in indignation.
‘Shh! Keep your voice down!’ Torrance glanced nervously at the subaltern in command at the Dairy Farm, but apparently he had not heard. ‘If I have a choice between desertion and spending the rest of the war in a Jap POW camp? What do you think? Only, some bastard’s half-inched them.’ He remembered waking up in the rifle slit overlooking the Bukit Timah Road and finding MacRae crouching over him. ‘Smiler!’ he muttered to Rossi. ‘That thieving bastard! He was the only one who knew I had those tickets. He must have nicked them while we slept in the same slit trench last night.’
‘You’re no’ gaunae accuse Smiler of taking your tickets, are ye? He’s a psycho! He’ll slit ye up as soon as look at ye!’
Torrance glanced across to where MacRae was talking to Gibson. Rossi was right: he did not dare accuse MacRae of stealing his tickets. For one thing, he could hardly complain to their company commander and insist on MacRae being searched for the missing tickets, not when the stolen property was evidence of Torrance’s intention to desert. And if he challenged MacRae to his face, there was no telling how he would react, but slipping the blade of his flick knife between Torrance’s ribs did not seem beyond the realms of probability.
He would just have to bide his time and wait for an opportunity to steal them back.
Plenty of other Plymouth Argylls arrived at the Dairy Farm while Torrance’s section waited, but Dunbar was not amongst them. Torrance decided they could wait no longer: they had to assume Dunbar had been killed or captured.
The subaltern pointed them all in the direction of the pipeline, which would lead them to Dunearn Road. It had been laid just a couple of years before the war to carry water from the mainland along the Causeway, over the centre of the island and down into Singapore Town. At last Torrance took a final drag on his cigarette, dropped it to the mud and ground it out beneath the toe of his boot. ‘All right, let’s get cracking,’ he told his section.
They followed the others to the pipeline. The pipes ran above ground for most of their length, with the trees cut down for about twenty yards on either side to allow easy access for maintenance. It was an easy route down into the city with no possibility of getting lost, even in the dark.
Half an hour’s steady march brought them within sight of the grandstand at the racecourse.
Bolt actions clicked in the darkness. ‘Who goes there?’ demanded a Norfolk accent.
‘Argyll!’ said Torrance.
A torch was clicked on, the beam shone in Torrance’s face, then the faces of those around him. A subaltern arrived, and they were marched down past the grandstand. The racecourse itself was being used as an army supply dump: there were crates of rations stacked there, and also some ten-gallon oil drums, but the latter were on fire now and adding their smoke to the pall already hanging over the island from the tanks at Woodlands.
Torrance and his section were escorted to where Sergeant Cochrane was rallying stragglers on the Dunearn Road. ‘Well done, lads! Can ye find your way back to the barracks frae here?’
‘The barracks?’ Torrance asked in bewilderment. ‘Aren’t we regrouping somewhere to counter-attack?’
Cochrane shook his head. ‘We’re being pulled out o’ the front line. Ye’ve done your bit. That’s come reet frae the top.’
‘Bloody hell! I could’ve told ’em that three days ago!’
* * *
‘Great Scott!’ Colonel Hamilton pressed down the cradle of his telephone set, then dialled again. After a few rings, he heard the voice of one of the operators at the Battle Box.
‘Malaya Command.’
‘Colonel Hamilton. I need to speak to the CIC. Most urgent.’
‘Most urgent request for the CIC.’ The operator rang off.
Hamilton replaced the handset on the cradle of his telephone and stood up, toying with his malacca cane as he studied the map on the wall of his office, his mind racing.
The hut at Sime Road was practically empty now. Everyone had moved to the Battle Box, but there was no room for Hamilton’s unit, the Far East Combined Bureau. They had been moved to a new headquarters in Colombo, Ceylon, and Hamilton should have been there himself if it had not been for this al-Jawziyya business.
After a few anxious minutes, the telephone rang and he snatched it up.
‘FECB.’
‘Hamilton? Percival here.’
‘Is it true the Japs have landed at Woodlands, sir?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘And do you still believe these landings are a diversion to trick you into withdrawing troops from the north-east coast?’
Percival sighed. ‘No… no, it does seem as if the landings at Sarimbun were the main thrust after all.’
And we’ve wasted more than sixty hours waiting for an attack that never came, thought Hamilton, when we could have been moving reinforcements across the island to help the Australians push the invaders back into the sea. But there was no use in telling Percival that now. ‘Presumably these Japs at Woodlands will be pushing south up the Woodlands Road to link up with the Japs advancing east from Tengah.’
‘Yes, that seems a reasonable assessment of their likely intentions.’
‘Then if we’re going to go ahead with Operation Mildew, we have only a short time to carry it out.’
‘Operation Mildew?’
‘I thought it might be just as well to draw up a plan for getting you-know-who away from you-know-where,’ said Hamilton, mindful that the Japanese might have tapped the line somehow.
‘Yes… yes, of course. Why “Mildew”?’
‘No reason. Let a dictionary fall open at a page at random, closed my eyes and pointed at the page. Do I have your permission to approach Colonel Stewart?’
‘He won’t like it. I’ve ordered him to pick three other men from his battalion and accompany them away from Singapore so they can pass on their expertise on jungle warfare. He doesn’t want to leave the rest of his men behind; the only way I could persuade him to go was if I promised they wouldn’t be called upon to do any more fighting in this campaign. Heaven knows, he’s right: they’ve been in the thick of the fighting pretty much since day one, they’ve been pushed to breaking point. If any men under my command have earned a rest, it’s the Argylls.’
‘I appreciate that, sir. But they’re the only ones who can find their way across the you-know-what.’
‘Speak to Stewart. Ask him if he’ll at least give his men the opportunity to volunteer.’
‘Thank you, sir. I promise you won’t regret it.’
‘And… Hamilton?’
‘Sir?’
‘Have you made your own arrangements to leave Singapore?’
‘Not yet, sir. Been a bit too busy to make travel arrangements.’
‘Then you need to make it a higher priority. It would be a shame if you went to so much trouble to get Killigrew out and ended up getting caught by the Japs yourself. If – when – you get al-Jawziyya out, make sure you leave Singapore by the same boat. That’s an order, Colonel.’
‘Very good, sir.’
* * *
‘Hey, Slugger!’ Torrance heard an Australian accent call as his section passed Dunearn Road School. A dozen Australian soldiers lounged on the steps at the main entrance, looking beaten. As Torrance searched faces every bit as blackened with grime as those of himself and his comrades, one of them raised a hand and waved to catch his attention.
He nudged Rossi. ‘It’s Bluey!’
The two of them walked across to where Quinn sat with ten of their comrades. The Australians had doffed the Brodie helmets they wore in battle for their slouch hats, though they wore them with the brim down on all sides.
‘We got nabbed by the Japs,’ said Torrance.
‘Seriously? How did you escape?’
‘Oh, you know,’ Torrance said airily. ‘A little derring-do and a ton of luck.’
‘What about Mr Jennings?’
‘He wisnae so lucky.’ Rossi’s grim tone conveyed a world of meaning that discouraged further enquiry on that account. ‘Where’s Mother?’
‘Bought it near Tengah yesterday,’ said Quinn. ‘What about that sheila you were with, the Yank medico?’
‘Kay Sheridan? She stopped one in the side, but they reckon she’ll be all right. She’s in hospital at the moment. I keep meaning to visit her, but you know how it is.’
Quinn nodded. ‘War plays havoc with a feller’s private life.’
‘What are ye lot doin’ here?’ asked Rossi.
‘Just taking a breather,’ said Quinn. ‘Our orders are, when we get separated from our mob, we’re supposed to regroup at the Anzac Club.’
‘The Anzac Club?’ exclaimed Torrance. ‘That’s miles away!’
‘Tell us something we don’t know! Where are you fellers off to?’
‘We’ve been ordered back to our barracks,’ said Rossi. ‘Ye should come with us. We can probably arrange for ye to cadge a lift to the Anzac Club frae there.’
‘And we’ll buy you a pint in our NAAFI while we wait.’
Quinn exchanged glances with a couple of his mates. ‘You know what they say about English beer, Bluey,’ said one.
‘Our NAAFI serves McEwan’s,’ said Rossi.
‘Oh, well, in that case…’ Quinn and two other Australians – one of them built like a brick shithouse, the other barely old enough to shave – rose to their feet and accompanied Torrance and Rossi down the road. ‘These two are cobbers of mine,’ explained Quinn. ‘Solly Shapiro and Cyril Boyd. Solly, Cyril, these blokes are Lefty Rossi and Slugger Torrance.’
From the racecourse it was only a two-mile walk down the Dunearn Road to Tanglin. The Rochor Canal – really an oversized monsoon drain – ran all the way from Bukit Timah down to Newton Circus before snaking its way through the mazy streets of Singapore Town. As far as Newton Circus, Dunearn Road ran along the northern bank of the canal while the continuation of Bukit Timah Road ran along the southern bank, these two major roads only occasionally linked by bridges. There was no sign of any Japanese tanks, so either they had been stopped at Bukit Timah or they were caught in traffic. Filthy and tattered Plymouth Argylls and Australians trudged along the pavements with gangs of native refugees: Malays, Chinese, Tamils, some walking, some riding on bullock carts piled high with furniture. Coolies pedalled trishaws or hauled rickshaws laden with trunks and suitcases. Other refugees rode in buses or lorries and vied for space on the crowded tarmac with army ambulances carrying wounded men into town. Frightened by the confusion, weary children grizzled relentlessly.
The sun was well over the horizon by the time Torrance and his companions reached the hutted encampment at Tyersall Park, a copper orb straining to penetrate the veil of smoke above the island. The two Argylls and three Australians staggered into the NAAFI. Several dozen of their other comrades were already there, Highlanders and marines, their khaki drills filthy and tattered, faces black with the oily grime left by the soot-laden rain, eyes staring unseeing into the middle distance. MacRae was there, too. Torrance glared at him, wondering if he had the stolen tickets on him, or had he secreted them in his locker? Perhaps he should slip out and take the opportunity to search MacRae’s locker; he could not imagine the Glaswegian leaving the NAAFI any time soon while he had a full pint in front of him. But MacRae would not be daft enough to leave anything as precious as a couple of tickets in his locker, would he? He would have found some other hiding place… or maybe he still had them on him…
MacRae suddenly glanced across and saw Torrance standing at the bar with Rossi and the three Australians. Torrance pasted a disingenuous smile on his face and raised a hand in greeting. Don’t let him guess you’ve missed the tickets, much less that you’ve worked out he’s the bastard who stole them, thought Torrance. Keep him in a false sense of security.
‘What can I get you?’ asked the Chinese behind the bar.
‘A bottle of Tiger beer, three McEwan’s…’ Torrance took out a ten-dollar note.
‘Is Slugger getting a round in?’ asked Rossi. ‘Someone call the Straits Times!’
Torrance indicated Boyd. ‘What’s he drinking?’
‘I’ll have a McEwan’s,’ said Boyd.
‘He’ll have a bottle of Coke,’ said Shapiro.
‘And a bottle of Coke,’ said Torrance.
‘I cannot serve them,’ said the barman. ‘Only Argylls in this bar. And marines. They’re Australians.’
‘You’re not serving them, you’re serving me. They’re my guests,’ said Torrance. ‘Besides, these blokes are honorary Argylls.’
The barman removed the caps from five bottles so cold they were beaded with condensation, and gave Torrance his change. The five men slumped in chairs around the table next to the one where MacRae sat. Either you’ve got those tickets on you, or you know where they’re hidden, thought Torrance. Either way, Smiler my old chum, from now on, until I’ve got those tickets back, I’m sticking to you like glue.
‘What’s the betting they change their minds and decide they need us to go back into battle after all?’ said Rossi.
‘They can bugger off if they do,’ said Torrance.
‘At least the brass seem to think we’re winning,’ White said at the next table.
‘How d’ye reckon that?’ asked MacRae.
‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it? If we were losin’, they wouldn’t let us sit here and rest.’
‘Mebbe they figure Singapore’s as good as lost already,’ said Rossi.
Lieutenant Piggott entered the NAAFI. The brawny product of the playing fields of Fettes College, he was a recent addition to the battalion, one of several young officers of the Federal Malay States Police who had hastily been granted temporary commissions in the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders to replace losses upcountry. Although his only previous experience of the military was a Territorial Army commission in the Black Watch, he knew the country well and was fluent in both Malay and Hokkien Chinese.
He had shaved, showered and changed into a fresh set of khaki drills. ‘As you were, men,’ he said automatically, though no one had enough energy left to rise to his feet at the entrance of an officer. ‘Just a quick announcement. Colonel Stewart has asked me to tell you you’ve all done well – damned well – and he’s proud of you. He’ll tell you so himself later. I know there are rumours going around, so I’ll just clarify: he’s spoken with General Percival and got his agreement that whatever else happens, none of you will be called upon to do any more fighting for the remainder of this campaign.’
No one cheered. No one booed. They all just stared at Piggott as if his words were meaningless.
‘However…’
‘I knew it,’ Torrance muttered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I knew there’d be a bleedin’ catch.’
Overhearing him, Piggott glared. ‘Just to be clear: no one is going to be asked to do any more fighting against his will. If anyone wishes to volunteer, however… it seems the general staff need a squad of men to carry out a job. They seem to think it’s important. From what I understand it’s exceedingly hazardous and highly unlikely that any man who takes part in this mission will live to tell the tale.’
Gibson was on his feet at once, snapping to attention. ‘Permission to volunteer, sah!’
‘Very good, Gibson. Knew we could count on you. I don’t suppose you’re qualified on the Number Eighteen wireless set?’
Gibson shook his head. ‘No, sir.’
‘That’s a shame,’ said Piggott. �
��Never mind. Anyone else?’
Quinn and Shapiro exchanged glances and rose to their feet. ‘Is this a purely Pommy affair, sir, or will there be room for a couple of Aussies?’
‘We’ll be glad to have you, but what will your CO say?’
‘Our CO’s down with Delhi belly, his number two has been transferred to Twenty-Seventh Brigade and he’s been replaced by… who did they get to replace Colonel Oakes?’ Quinn asked Shapiro.
‘Robertson.’
‘Yeah, right, Robertson. Only I’m not even sure he’s still alive, and the rest of our mob is scattered up and down Bukit Timah Road. Now, we could go down to the Anzac Club and find out whoever’s in charge there has no more idea what’s going on than the staff officers at Gordon Bennett’s HQ. Or we can come with you and get stuck into the Japs again as soon as possible. I know which I’d prefer.’
‘I appreciate your enthusiasm, but there are certain military protocols to be observed. I doubt your Colonel Robertson would thank me for—’
‘We’re both qualified on the Number Eighteen wireless set,’ added Quinn.
‘We are?’ said Shapiro.
‘Yeah, you remember,’ said Quinn. ‘We went on that course last year.’
‘Oh yeah, that’s right. I’d forgotten.’
‘We do need a wireless operator,’ mused Piggott. ‘Which unit are you?’
‘Second Nineteenth Australian Infantry.’
‘All right, I’ll try to get word to Colonel Robertson that you’re on temporary secondment to the Plymouth Argylls. It’s a tad presumptuous, but under the circs I dare say he’ll understand. Anyone else?’
Boyd stood up. Shapiro put a hand on his shoulder and forced him down again.
‘But I want to come!’ said Boyd.
‘You stay here, kid. Where we’re going will be no place for rookies.’
‘Solly’s right, Cyril. You stay here. Slugger and Lefty will see to it you get a lift back to the Anzac Club.’
Torrance: Escape from Singapore Page 7