One of the senior officers on General Yamashita’s staff – said to be the mastermind who had planned the successful invasion of Malaya – Colonel Tsuji emerged from an office with another staff officer, who bowed humbly to the colonel and took his leave. Yashiro discreetly put his Coke bottle on a window ledge so he could salute the colonel properly when he turned to face him. Tsuji had General Tojo for a patron, so it was as well to be polite. He was forty or thereabouts, his hair crew-cut where it was not receding, his face regular but unremarkable. Nevertheless, as Tsuji looked him up and down through the round frames of his tortoiseshell spectacles, Yashiro felt a slight spasm in his gut and was conscious of the sweat dripping down from his armpits.
‘One of our patrols found the burned-out wreck of a British Army lorry a mile from Sarimbun,’ Tsuji told him. ‘There was not much left of the corpses within, but enough to make it clear they were Japanese, not British. We believe Lieutenant Murakami and his men commandeered the vehicle to take them to Istana Mimpi; and one of our fighters, seeing what appeared to be a British lorry driving below, opened fire on it. In any event, it now falls to you to complete Murakami’s mission.’ The colonel turned to another officer who had been waiting nearby. ‘Major Hamaguchi?’
The major snapped to attention. ‘Tsuji-sama?’
‘Take Yashiro-san to where his squad is waiting.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Without another word, Tsuji turned on his heel and returned to his office. Yashiro felt he ought to have been offended by the peremptory manner in which the staff colonel had dealt with him, but in truth he felt only relief the encounter was over. Nevertheless, as he followed Hamaguchi through a dining hall, out of a pair of French windows and across the terrace to the greensward beyond, he felt as though he had been marked by Tsuji, for good or ill: if today’s mission was a success, then it might be reported to Tojo himself; and if a failure, Baron Uchida would learn all about it in no uncertain terms.
‘I’m giving you Sergeant Shimura’s platoon,’ Hamaguchi said as he led Yashiro to where a squad of men waited by one of the airfield’s dispersal huts. ‘Shimura is one of our best men and all the men in his platoon are veterans of the war in China; you won’t find better soldiers in any battalion in the Imperial Japanese Army.’
‘I hope you are right, Major.’ Yashiro could not help thinking that if this mission was as simple as he had been led to expect, a troupe of geisha girls might have carried it out just as effectively, leaving Shimura and his squad free for the greater challenge of prising Singapore Town from the grip of the British.
As the two officers approached, the sergeant barked an order and the three dozen men under his command paraded themselves for inspection. They were a rough-looking crowd in battle-stained uniforms, but Yashiro was not looking for a guard of honour. He reminded himself not to get overconfident: he might yet have need of battle-hardened veterans such as these.
‘Yashiro-sama, may I present Sergeant Shimura?’ asked Hamaguchi. ‘Shimura, this is Captain Yashiro of U-Kikan.’
Yashiro had spent enough time serving in the regular army to know that the standard size for a rifle platoon was fifty-four men. ‘Are these all your men, Sergeant?’
‘Aside from a dozen in hospital and another six whose bones we carry for interment in Japan,’ said Shimura.
‘I’ve been ordered to place the best platoon in my battalion at Captain Yashiro’s disposal,’ Hamaguchi explained. ‘That’s your platoon.’
Shimura bowed. ‘I’ll endeavour to prove myself worthy of the trust you repose in me, Hamaguchi-sama.’ He turned to the captain. ‘May I ask what this is all about, Yashiro-sama?’
‘You may, but time is of the essence. I’ll explain on the way.’
* * *
Little light showed through the mist hanging amongst the rows of rubber trees on the plantation, no doubt because, far above the canopy of trees, the smoke from the oil tanks continued to provide a second canopy. The eight remaining men of Pigforce clambered over a gate. The distant rumble of thunder had provided a bassline rhythm to Torrance’s life for so many days now, he scarcely even noticed it any more.
He was tired… God, he was tired! Apart from the all-too brief forty winks he had enjoyed in the back of the lorry yesterday afternoon, he had only had two hours’ sleep in the past twenty-four… and how few hours in the days before that? He closed his eyes for a moment; the next thing he knew it felt like it was a week later and he had bumped into a tree. He had fallen asleep on his feet. Crimson with embarrassment, he looked around at the others, but they were all just as exhausted as he was and none of them had even noticed. Shaking his head muzzily in an effort to clear it, he marched on.
They followed an estate road of rusty-coloured gravel to a row of crude, atap-thatched huts hidden amongst the rows of rubber trees on another plantation. Signalling for everyone but Rossi to keep back, Torrance unslung his Thompson and slipped the safety catch forward, kicking the door of the first hut. Instead of swinging open, it fell off its hinges altogether. The butt of the sub-machine gun braced to his shoulder, Torrance peered inside and saw a thin, mildewed mattress, some soiled blankets and a few cooking bowls. Flies buzzed around in the stench, and he recoiled. ‘Ugh! Looks like some old tramp’s been living here.’
Rossi leaned against the door jamb. ‘Have ye never seen inside a rubber-tapper’s hut before? They all look like this.’
‘You can’t blame them for that. They’re just ignorant heathens, they don’t know any better—’
‘What, d’ye think they want to live like this?’ Rossi asked as they checked each of the huts in turn. ‘This is how they’re forced to live. The fellers who run the rubber companies live in grand villas in Tanglin, while the poor sods who do the actual work that makes the profit get paid such a pittance they have to live in this squalor.’ Rossi was not called ‘Lefty’ because he was left-handed. ‘Why d’ye think the people of this country are lining the roads to cheer when the Japanese arrive?’
‘Don’t tell me you believe that Jap propaganda!’
‘The only propaganda I hear is the politicians and the colonial officials talking about the wonderful benefits the British Empire confers upon its subjects. I don’t see much evidence of any benefits here, do ye?’
‘You think the Japs would treat ’em any better?’
‘No, I’m just saying ye cannae blame the natives if some o’ them think any deal might be better than the one they currently enjoy living under the British Empire.’
‘More fool them. The British Empire protects them—’
‘The way it protected the people living on the mainland, ye mean?’ Rossi asked sarcastically.
‘This is just a temporary setback,’ said Torrance. ‘All right, so the Japs caught us napping, I’ll grant you that. But any day now reinforcements will arrive from Australia and India, and when they get here Tojo and his hordes are going to find they’ve bitten off more than they can chew. Then we’ll reconquer Malaya in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Didn’t they ever teach you in school? The sun never sets on the British Empire.’
‘That’s because God disnae trust the English in the dark,’ said Rossi.
‘This time it’ll be different,’ insisted Torrance.
‘How d’ye know?’
‘I feel it in my gut.’
‘Oh, ye feel it in your gut, do ye? Listen, pal, when I want to know if what ye’ve just scoffed is fit to eat, your gut is the first thing I’ll ask. For all other questions, ye’ll forgive me if I prefer to be guided by facts, evidence and logic.’
Torrance kicked open another door. Fortunately by this point he was doing it out of force of habit and was surprised to find two soldiers on the other side, otherwise he might have machine-gunned the pair of them before he realised they were in British uniforms: a white captain and an Indian in a turban and khaki drill. The captain was stretched out on the mattress in the hut, evidently wounded judging from the amount of blood soaking his shirt and cert
ainly not sufficiently conscious to be aware of Torrance. Crouching over him, the Indian raised his hands.
A hand came from Torrance’s right – a third man standing hidden to one side of the door – and grabbed the Thompson’s barrel, forcing it up. Even as Torrance tried to wrench the gun free, a second hand, balled into a fist, smashed into his jaw, making his teeth rattle in his skull. Still he would not relinquish his grip on the Thompson. The other man grabbed the gun with his left hand also, pulling the sub-machine gun down between them. Torrance was aware the man he grappled was tall and athletically built, smelling faintly of expensive aftershave. He hooked an ankle behind the other man’s leg, shoved the Thompson against his chest and tripped him, sending him staggering back against the wall. The flimsy, rotten wood splintered under his weight and both of them fell through, rolling over on the leafy ground outside. Torrance’s opponent rolled on top, pressed the Thompson down against his Adam’s apple, choking him. Torrance lifted his knee into the man’s crotch. The man groaned, and Torrance was able to push him off and roll on top, in turn, pressing the Thompson down against his opponent’s throat. He was another Indian, Torrance now saw, in his mid-thirties, an angular, wedge-shaped face with high cheekbones, a complexion the colour of mahogany and a dapper Clark Gable moustache. Torrance was about to finish the bastard off when he heard the click of a revolver being cocked, and something cold and metallic touched him behind the ear.
‘Let him up.’ The voice was cultured, and Torrance took it for that of a British officer. Still he hesitated to lessen the weight with which he forced the Thompson down into the Indian’s throat: his opponent still had plenty of fight left in him, and the moment Torrance let him up, he sensed the Indian would be on him like a tiger.
Then someone worked the bolt action of a Lee–Enfield. ‘Drop the gun,’ said a Glaswegian accent, and Torrance recognised Rossi’s voice. The pistol muzzle was taken from behind Torrance’s ear. Triumphant, he pushed himself off the Indian and turned the Thompson on the man with the revolver. Given the man’s cultured accent, Torrance was surprised to discover the man was another Indian, albeit lighter-skinned than his new sparring partner, with a dimpled chin on a square jaw and a thick black moustache that angled down on either side of his mouth: not quite the handlebar moustache of a Mexican bandit, but certainly something on the way to one. Most sepoys Torrance had encountered spoke English with a thick Indian accent, if they spoke it at all.
The lighter-skinned Indian threw down his Webley, but instead of raising his hands he adjusted his shirt with as much dignity as he could muster. ‘Do you not salute a superior officer in your regiment, soldier?’ He indicated the pips on his epaulettes, and Torrance realised he was a jemadar, the Indian Army equivalent of a lieutenant.
Torrance saluted the jemadar – king’s regulations demanded it – but it was not the smartest salute he could muster. Rossi slung his rifle from his shoulder and likewise stood to attention and saluted.
The others marched across with Cochrane at their head. ‘Who’s this?’ demanded the sergeant.
‘Jemadar Nagarkar, Twenty-Third Field Company, Royal Bombay Sappers and Miners,’ the jemadar introduced himself, and hauled Torrance’s sparring partner to his feet. ‘This is Sapper Varma. Who are you?’
‘Sergeant Cochrane, Second Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, currently assigned to Pigforce.’
‘Pigforce?’ said Nagarkar. ‘What is that?’
‘Special unit put together to rescue the Sultan of Malacca from Istana Mimpi,’ said Cochrane.
‘Well done, Sar’nt,’ said Torrance. ‘Just tell him everything. How do you know he’s not a Jap spy?’
‘I’ve got to answer his question,’ said Cochrane. ‘He’s an officer.’ In fact, the sergeant looked pleased to have an officer to defer to.
‘There hasn’t been a Sultan of Malacca since the Portuguese invaded more than four centuries ago,’ said Nagarkar.
‘The feller who claims to be the direct descendant of the last Sultan of Malacca, I mean,’ said Cochrane.
‘You mean the Sultan of Johore?’
‘No, no’ him. The other one, the one the British government disnae recognise. The brass are worried if the Japs capture him, they’ll make him a puppet ruler of Malaya. So we’re to get him back to Singapore and put him on a boat for Java.’
Nagarkar did not look convinced. He cast an eye over the other men of Pigforce. ‘Who’s your commanding officer?’
‘Lieutenant Piggott, sir. But we ran intae some Japs on the Woodlands Road a while back and he got killed.’
‘Who’s your commanding officer?’ Torrance demanded pointedly.
‘Captain Willoughby.’ Nagarkar gestured to the hut where Torrance had first found him. ‘We were helping the Australians blow up the railway bridge across the Sungei Mandai on Tuesday night when the Japanese made their second landing at Woodlands. The oil being run off from one of the fuel tanks caught fire and there was a river of flames between us and the rest of our field company. We headed up Woodlands Road, thinking to follow the Mandai Road to Nee Soon and rejoin our unit from there, when we ran into a unit of Japanese Imperial Guards. We managed to drive them off, but Willoughby Sahib was wounded, so we brought him here to try to patch him up. Since then we’ve been taking it in turns, one of us staying with the captain while the other searches for a way past the Japanese lines.’
‘How did you get past the Japanese lines?’ asked Sapper Varma. Much to Torrance’s surprise, his English was even more cultured than Nagarkar’s.
‘Folding assault boat across the MacRitchie Reservoir,’ said Cochrane. ‘But it’ll only take nine. Less, if one of them’s too badly wounded to sit up.’
‘We could make two trips,’ said Varma.
‘Ye want us to abandon our mission?’ asked Cochrane. It sounded less like a protest than a prayer to Torrance’s ears. That was only sensible: with Piggott dead, it seemed pointless to press on, but clearly Cochrane did not want the responsibility for taking that decision if there was an officer around to do it for him, and even a jemadar of the Royal Bombay Sappers and Miners would do at a pinch.
‘Are we supposed to carry their captain all the way back to the MacRitchie reservoir?’ asked MacRae.
‘It’ll be a lot easier in daylight,’ said Cochrane.
‘Easier! It’s seven or eight miles.’
‘We’ll rig up a litter. With the nine of us taking turns to carry it…’
‘And we let the Sultan of Malacca rot,’ said Rossi. ‘Is that it?’
Torrance could have throttled his friend at that moment.
‘With all due respect to Captain Willoughby,’ said Varma, ‘if these men have a mission to carry out, I don’t think we should interfere. Not for Captain Willoughby’s sake. For all we know, their mission could be vital to the war effort. We can’t ask them to abandon it for the sahib who, frankly, I don’t think will survive as far as the MacRitchie Reservoir. I’m amazed he’s clung on as long as he has.’
‘Hoot, see what ye can do for Captain Willoughby,’ said Cochrane.
‘Yes, Sar’nt.’ Gibson entered the hut. It was typical of the lance corporal that he did so by opening the door, even though it would have been easier to step through the hole created by Torrance and Varma during their brawl.
‘How far is it to… what did you call the place where you expect to find the sultan?’ asked Nagarkar.
‘Istana Mimpi,’ said Zulkifli. ‘It is the sultan’s palace, about two miles from here.’ The Malay pointed through the trees.
‘Two miles away on the other side of the Kranji Creek,’ said Torrance.
‘How on earth are you intending to cross the Kranji Creek?’ asked Nagarkar.
‘It’s possible to wade across the creek,’ said Rossi. ‘We did it on manoeuvres last summer. Did we no’, Slugger?’
Torrance did not reply. He did not trust himself to speak. All he could think was: Shut your mouth, Lefty! Don’t you think we’re in enough trouble as it
is, without trying to wade to the wrong side of the Kranji Creek?
Nine
Thursday 0730 – 0900
‘Isn’t it time we checked in with Colonel Hamilton?’ asked Quinn.
Torrance knew exactly what Hamilton would say: it would not bother him much that Piggott was dead, he would want them to push on with the mission. Torrance knew his sort: they were always fearless when it came to other men’s lives.
Shapiro started to shrug off the wireless. Torrance wondered if he could bump into him and make him drop it with all its delicate valves. He decided against it: for one thing, he did not think he could convincingly make it look like an accident, and for another, to make the brawny Australian drop the wireless would clearly require more bumping than Torrance could muster.
Quinn produced the microphone and the headphones, and Shapiro even managed to get the jacks in the right sockets, but from the way he flicked switches and twiddled dials, it was clear to Torrance – himself no expert with the Number Eighteen set – that they would have been onto a loser if it had not been for Rossi, helpful as always, coming to their assistance. The Glaswegian extended the telescopic rod aerial, flicked a couple of extra switches, unflicked a couple Shapiro had previously flicked, and twiddled a dial.
Shapiro picked up the microphone. ‘How do you, er…?’
‘You gotta hold down the button,’ said Quinn.
‘I know that,’ said Shapiro. ‘What I meant to say was, what do I say?’
‘Ye have to use the proper call signs,’ said Cochrane. ‘We’re “Wee Willie Winkie” and Hamilton is “Sea Devil”.’
Torrance: Escape from Singapore Page 12