‘What is it, Corporal?’ asked Piggott.
‘I thought I heard something.’
The five of them listened in silence for a moment. They had left the frogs of the jungle behind and the only sound Torrance could hear was the unceasing hiss of rain and the splash of water gushing out of a pipe further up the drain, and he started to wonder if he had imagined the other noise.
‘What did it sound like?’ asked Piggott.
Before Torrance could reply, the clank and squeal of tank tracks and the growl of a Mitsubishi diesel engine sounded once more, much louder than before.
‘Like that,’ Torrance said as a Japanese Ha-Go tank lurched out of the rain. No, three tanks. The five men in the ditch stepped back across the runnel and pressed their backs to the east side of the drain.
The tanks clanked and squealed their way down the road towards Woodlands, and the curtain of rain closed behind them. Their noise carried back, growing fainter, and then there was only the hiss of the rain again.
Piggott waited another couple of minutes and then stepped over the runnel a third time, once more taking up position with his back to the side of the drain and his hands clasped before him. ‘Torrance, you’d better go first,’ he said. ‘When you reach the lalang grass, take up position where you can provide covering fire, and signal us when the coast is clear.’
‘How the hell am I supposed to signal you from all the way over there, without yelling?’ With a Japanese roadblock scarcely a hundred yards up the road, Torrance was in no hurry to start yelling at anyone.
‘Throw a pebble or something. You can throw a stone that far, can’t you?’
Torrance nodded and climbed up onto Piggott’s shoulders without further discussion. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear, then clambered the rest of the way out of the drain, crossing the railway tracks, then dashing across the padang and throwing himself flat in the lalang grass, legs splayed, his Thompson aimed back the way he had come. Still the road was empty. Cold from the wet ground seeped through his sodden shirt to chill his belly. He cast about for a stone, but the lalang grass offered nothing large enough. He took a spare magazine from one of his utility pouches, pried a ·45 round from it, and flung that instead. When the best part of a minute passed without any sign of Piggott and the others climbing out of the ditch, he flung a second round. A few seconds later Zulkifli appeared, followed by Quinn and Shapiro. The two Australians lingered on the brim of the drain, hauling Piggott out after them. The three of them sprinted through the rain after Zulkifli, and then all four of them dropped to the grass close to where Torrance lay.
Piggott made sure the coast was clear and signalled with his torch again. Cochrane, Gibson, Rossi and MacRae burst out of the trees a moment later, dashing across the road and dropping into the monsoon ditch. A few seconds passed, then Cochrane reappeared, scrambling out on the near side of the drain and crossing the railway tracks. He was followed a moment later by Gibson and MacRae. The three of them dropped to the grass with Piggott’s team.
‘You forget something, Sar’nt?’ Torrance asked Cochrane.
The sergeant patted his pockets down, checking he had all his gear. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘How did you get out of the monsoon ditch?’
‘Lefty helped me up.’
‘What about you, Hoot?’
‘Lefty helped me up.’
‘Smiler?’
MacRae was the first one for whom the penny dropped. He grimaced. ‘Who’s gaunae help Lefty up?’
Torrance could picture it: Rossi could jump up and maybe even hang from the lip of the ditch, but his scrabbling hobnailed ammo boots would gain little purchase on the rain-slick concrete wall of the drain.
MacRae started to rise, but Piggott caught him by the arm. ‘As you were, MacRae. Set up the Bren so you can provide cover for Cochrane and Gibson; and for Rossi, when they’ve helped him out.’
The sergeant and the lance corporal dashed back across the padang and the railway line. They crouched by the drain, and a moment later they had lifted Rossi out after them. The three of them hurried across to where the others lay, then all nine of them rose and disappeared into the bushes. Beyond, a stream ran through a shallow gully.
‘Two squads again, sir?’ suggested Cochrane.
‘Yes, but let’s switch things around a little this time, shall we?’ suggested Piggott. ‘You come with me, and Torrance can lead the B Squad.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Cochrane, though his brow was furrowed.
‘All right, let’s go.’ Piggott slithered down the bank to the stream, signalling for Cochrane, Zulkifli and the two Australians to follow while Torrance lingered on the east bank with Gibson, Rossi and MacRae.
Piggott’s squad waded through the stream, which was no deeper than their waists, and began to climb up the slope of the opposite bank. The subaltern reached the top first and turned to help Cochrane up after him. Before the two of them could clasp hands, however, the lieutenant suddenly opened his mouth wide as if to cry out in shock, and arched his back. A dark stain spread across his chest, and Torrance was staring in astonishment, wondering why he had not heard a shot, when he saw the dull gleam of a bayonet’s tip jutting from Piggott’s chest.
Eight
Thursday 0500 – 0730
A Japanese soldier stood behind Piggott, gripping a rifle. If the expression on his face was any indication, he was just as shocked to have impaled the lieutenant on his bayonet as Piggott was to be impaled.
Torrance hesitated to fire for fear of hitting the lieutenant, though Piggott’s chances of surviving such a wound seemed slim. Torrance was more concerned not to advertise their presence to any other Japanese soldiers in the vicinity. It seemed unlikely the one who had bayoneted the lieutenant would be alone.
These considerations became moot when MacRae opened up with the Bren. Lying down with the machine gun’s muzzle resting on its bipod, he fired it in single-shot mode, picking off more Japanese soldiers as they appeared through the bushes on the opposite bank. The soldier who had impaled Piggott withdrew the blade, perhaps intending to stab the lieutenant a second time, but Piggott at once staggered down the slope into Cochrane’s arms. Given a clear shot, Torrance braced his Thompson to his shoulder, but by then Zulkifli had dashed up the bank to impale the first Japanese on the spike bayonet fixed to his Lee–Enfield. Torrance swung his Thompson towards the other Japanese, firing short bursts as their return fire sent bullets whip-cracking over his head. A Japanese tumbled down the opposite slope, landing half in the sluggish waters of the stream below. A Nambu light machine gun added its chatter to the confusion. A grenade exploded and the Nambu fell silent.
The shooting stopped just as suddenly as it had started. Crouching in the bushes next to MacRae, Torrance was not sure who had won. Halfway up the opposite slope, Cochrane had lowered Piggott to the ground and crouched over him. Everyone else was either dead or had taken cover. Other than Piggott, the only bodies Torrance could see were Japanese.
Something rustled in the bushes behind him. He turned, levelling his Thompson. Rossi raised his hands hurriedly.
Torrance lowered the sub-machine gun. ‘Where’s Hoot?’
‘I don’t know. Want me to find him?’
‘No. Stay here with Smiler.’ Torrance took a deep breath and broke cover, wading through the stream to where Cochrane crouched over Piggott’s body. No one took any shots at him.
‘He’s dead,’ the sergeant said mournfully.
Torrance checked for himself, feeling for a pulse in Piggott’s neck and then his wrist. He found none. ‘Don’t forget his dog tags,’ he told Cochrane, before continuing up the slope to where Zulkifli had swiftly avenged Piggott’s death. The bayoneted Japanese still lay where he had fallen; there was no sign of the Malay. Torrance was squirming through the bushes at the top of the slope on his stomach in search of him when he heard the click-click of a bolt action. He put down the Thompson and stretched his arms out so
his captors could see his hands were empty.
‘Gotcha,’ said an Australian. Torrance rolled on his back to find Quinn and Shapiro standing over him, grinning.
‘Seen Zulkifli?’ asked Torrance.
‘Yeah. There were three more Japs who scarpered when things started getting warm; he went after them.’ Quinn nodded towards the shadows beneath a plantation of rubber trees a short distance away.
‘And you let him?’
‘Didn’t have a lot of choice, mate,’ said Shapiro. ‘One minute he was there, the next…?’ He shrugged.
A rifle cracked from under the trees, twice in quick succession.
‘Want me to go after him, Corp’?’ offered Quinn.
‘No. Let’s stick together. He’ll have to find us, if he hasn’t got himself killed already. Wait here in case you need to give him covering fire, through.’ Torrance thrust the Thompson into Quinn’s hands, taking his Lee–Enfield in exchange.
‘Gee, thanks,’ said Quinn.
‘It’s just till I get back.’ Torrance started to push through the bushes.
‘Hey! We’re not staying here, are we?’ Quinn called after him. ‘If any other Japs near here heard all that shooting, this place is about to have more Japs swarming around it than Central Railway Station, Tokyo.’
‘That’s up to Corky,’ said Torrance, though if the sergeant did not agree with Quinn’s common sense, Torrance would not hesitate to change his mind for him, at gunpoint if necessary.
Cochrane was still standing over Piggott’s body, fingering the lieutenant’s dog tags. ‘Well, don’t stand there like a fart in a thunderstorm!’ groaned Torrance. ‘Grab his field glasses, compass, map case and Webley.’
‘Are we no’ gaunae bury him?’ asked Cochrane.
‘Bury him!’ Torrance goggled at the sergeant. ‘What we’re gonna do, Corky me old son, is shift our arses and get as far away as we can, jildi.’
Crouching over Piggott, he took the lieutenant’s compass and map case and was about to thrust them into Cochrane’s hands when he realised the sergeant was in no fit state to navigate his way across his own quarters in barracks, much less terra incognita behind enemy lines. He looped the compass by its leather thong around his neck, buckled the map case to his belt, then stooped again to retrieve Piggott’s revolver and field glasses. Cochrane made no effort to resist as Torrance looped the strap of the field glasses around his neck so they hung against his chest, and tucked the revolver in his belt. Finally Torrance took Piggott’s Rolex.
‘Are ye stealing his watch?’ spluttered Cochrane.
‘Borrowing it,’ Torrance corrected him, strapping it to his wrist. ‘If we leave it, we leave it for the Japs. If we take it with us, I can see to it his next of kin gets it.’ He climbed up the eastern bank of the stream to where MacRae still manned the Bren. Behind him, Rossi was tying a field dressing about Gibson’s head. ‘Pack up the Bren, Smiler. We’re moving out.’
‘Is Mr Piggott…?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So Corky’s in command now?’
‘Not that you’d notice.’ Turning to Rossi, Torrance indicated Gibson. ‘Will he live?’
‘Oh aye. The bullet just creased his temple, that’s all.’
‘Thank Christ for that. Two and a half feet lower and it might’ve passed through his arse and blown his brains out. All right, let’s go, let’s go! Jildi, jildi!’
The four of them waded across the stream. As they ascended the opposite slope, Torrance caught the still-dazed Cochrane by the arm and dragged him to where Zulkifli now waited with Quinn and Shapiro.
‘You get all three of those Japs?’ asked Torrance.
Zulkifli shook his head. ‘One escaped, tuan. I thought it best to rejoin you rather than chase him any further.’
‘You did right. Okay, Corky, we’ve gotta move. Which way?’
‘I don’t know!’ sobbed the sergeant.
‘Kranji Creek lies this way, tuan.’ Zulkifli pointed into the trees.
‘Thank Christ one of us knows what he’s doing, then. Lead on, Macduff.’ Torrance was about to follow the Malay when he signalled for everyone to freeze. ‘You hear that?’ he asked Rossi.
‘Hear what?’
Torrance stood with his head cocked on one side, then shook it and moved on, following Zulkifli. ‘Never mind, I must’ve imagined it.’
‘Imagined what?’
‘I thought I heard a plane.’
* * *
The twin-engined Nakajima Ki-34 transport aircraft dipped through the pall of smoke hanging over Singapore. There were eight seats in the passenger cabin behind the flight deck, four on either side of the narrow aisle, seven of them occupied by junior members of General Yamashita’s staff who had not been important enough to secure a place on one of the earlier flights to Tengah Airfield. They clearly knew one another, occasionally chatting amicably amongst themselves during the three-and-a-half-hour flight across the Gulf of Siam from a Japanese airfield on Dao Phu Quoc, an island off the coast of Cambodia. All of them had politely ignored the eighth passenger, Yashiro, recognising him as a kenpei even without the white brassard on his sleeve. That suited Yashiro fine: he had been content to spend the flight sleeping, conserving his energy for the mission to come. It would be straightforward enough on the face of it, but he knew better than to fall prey to complacency: he was flying into a war zone and anything might happen to throw Baron Ushida’s plans awry.
Woken by the co-pilot emerging from the flight deck to let the passengers know they had started their descent, Yashiro gazed out through a window in time to see the layer of dark smoke rising to meet them. When they plunged into it, it was so thick he could barely see as far as the radial engine just a couple of feet from the Nakajima’s hull, tendrils of smoke torn by the propeller whipping across the cambered upper surface of the aeroplane’s wing.
Then they emerged into the twilit world below. Yashiro saw the brown waters of the Kranji Creek rushing past beneath, the pattern of closely packed green stars on either side that he knew were rubber plantations seen from above, the trees planted in regular rows. And just when it seemed they were about to make a crash landing on the waters of the creek only a few feet below them, they were over a runway, and the wheels had touched down. They bounced once, descended more softly a second time, and Yashiro felt his seat tilt back as the tailplane descended to rest on the tailwheel.
As the Nakajima taxied to the apron, he saw Japanese soldiers everywhere, and ground crew swarmed over the Mitsubishi A6M fighters now occupying the brickwork blast pens which must have housed Brewster Buffalos and Hawker Hurricanes only a few days earlier. The charred, skeletal remains of a Buffalo lay on its back on the greensward not far from the runway.
When the Nakajima had come to rest and the pilot had cut the engines, the co-pilot opened the door in the fuselage and lowered the ladder to the ground. As Yashiro descended, he noticed a slight taint in the air – faint but unmistakable, the acrid tang of oil smoke. Seen from the ground, the blood-red sun reminded him of the Japanese flag, even if the sky it shone from was a dirty, leaden grey rather than freshly laundered white. Yashiro wondered if it was a good omen. ‘You’ll need to refuel before you return to Dao Phu Quoc?’
The co-pilot nodded. ‘Our orders are to await your return.’
A Standard light utility truck in RAF blue – with Japanese flags on the front fenders – pulled up just beyond the Nakajima’s port wing tip. A corporal in a forage cap got out and saluted smartly.
‘Captain Yashiro?’
Yashiro pushed his way through the cluster of staff officers. They knew better than to comment out loud, but their expressions of outrage were supremely gratifying. Yashiro moved around the truck’s bonnet to slide into the passenger seat. The driver started the engine and they drove across the airfield to the station headquarters. Yashiro flashed his credentials at the sentries on guard at the main entrance and presented himself to the orderly officer at the desk in the foyer.
&n
bsp; He was evidently expected. ‘Colonel Tsuji will be with you in a few minutes.’
Yashiro indicated a door that was clearly marked as a latrine. ‘Do I have time to make myself presentable?’
‘I expect so.’
In the latrine, Yashiro relieved himself – the facilities on board the Nakajima had been primitive in the extreme and he was glad he had not drunk too much coffee while waiting at Dao Phu Quoc – before doffing his dark glasses to shave himself. The Ainu people of Hokkaido were noted for being more hirsute than the Japanese: Yashiro had last shaved at Dao Phu Quoc less than four hours ago, but already a five-o’clock shadow was turning his chin blue.
As he scraped soap suds from his jaw with a cut-throat razor, his bright-blue eyes stared back at him, and for a moment he heard the playground taunts that had haunted his childhood. At the end of the last century, the Ainu had been granted automatic Japanese citizenship, but that had only been as part of a movement to suppress their culture entirely and assimilate them more easily into the rest of Japanese society. Even so, there was still a feeling amongst some Japanese that those with Ainu ancestry were not ‘proper’ Japanese and never could be. Only when Yashiro had started at military prep school had he been able to silence his tormentors and demonstrate the intensity of his loyalty to the Emperor by graduating top in all his classes. Ainu blood might have corrupted the colour of his eyes, he told himself, but his heart was pure Japanese.
Emerging from the latrine, he helped himself to a bottle of chilled Coca-Cola from a cooler, pressing it to his forehead in an effort to combat the enervating heat. It had been winter when he left Japan forty-eight hours earlier, and now he sweltered in the tropical climate. He swigged the Coke while studying the framed photographs on the walls of the foyer. They showed RAF pilots, sometimes with ridiculous moustaches and sometimes without; sometimes in smart uniforms and sometimes in leather helmets, goggles and Mae West life vests; sometimes posing in front of Spitfires and Hurricanes, sometimes posing in front of wrecked Junkers and Heinkels. Evidently many of these young men had fought in the Battle of Britain; Yashiro wondered how many had been shot out of the skies over the Malayan jungles, and how many continued to fly their Hurricanes out of airfields in Sumatra.
Torrance: Escape from Singapore Page 11