by David B Hill
The unfortunate officers were herded to the rail, before an enemy clearly succumbing to a feverish aggression. It seemed like their end might be near. Len could hear the soldiers behind him beginning to react to the situation. He had forgotten they were there and that they too were watching.
On board, Johnny himself stared at impending death and felt nothing. He had often wondered whether repeated experience of close action was somehow immunising; whether being under fire as closely as they had been might, incrementally, inure a person from fear of death. He had heard of the death wish, but that implied a desire to abandon life, and he was damn sure he wasn’t ready for that. No. What he felt as he looked at the excited faces of his enemy was a grace, an inner peace, a freedom from extreme emotion. It surprised him. It surprised him further when his mind began to wander. He closed his eyes, hoping that the shadow of his hat obscured the fact; relishing the warmth of the sun. He saw the view from his house, out over the waters of Cockle Bay and the Tāmaki estuary to the islands of Motukorea and Rangitoto. He saw his wife Cecily, and heard her voice calling him to tea. At least they had had wonderfully happy times together.
The men on shore, and Len in particular, could not have imagined the paradox. They themselves were a long way from inner peace, struggling to suppress the overwhelming desire to fire at the Japanese from the shore and save their officers from execution. The thing that held them back was the certain knowledge that the retaliation from the destroyer would be swift and indefensible. And they still had a duty to protect the Admiral and the other senior officers.
Across the water floated a sharp command, followed by much shouting between the Japanese. Now it was Jock’s turn to raise the binoculars, and for Len to watch, as the enemy sailors moved to their launch and began to board it.
‘Christ, what are they up to now?’ said Len.
‘I don’t bloody believe this,’ Jock replied.
They watched as the Japanese officer said something to Johnny, then bowed stiffly from the waist. The men on the beach stood stunned, uncertain. They saw George Atkins give a bow of sorts, while Johnny saluted. The Japanese officer returned the salute, spun around and joined his men in their tender to return to the destroyer. None of the men on the beach could believe the unexpected change of fortune. They watched the destroyer take the launch back on board, weigh anchor and reverse gently before turning into the channel and slowly moving away. It rounded the larger island and disappeared from sight.
On the Fairmile, the men were totally drained of emotion; almost drained of energy. Their shoulders sagged, and they stared about themselves in bewilderment.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Pool whispered.
The Wing Commander just shook his head, uncomprehending.
Johnny expressed his own deep sigh of relief and laid his hand on his First Officer’s shoulder.
‘Come on, mate. Let’s go and find the others.’
★ ★ ★
Johnny and the other officers joined those already ashore. Len and Jackie listened keenly, as did they all, while Johnny explained to the Admiral and the assembly exactly what happened. The Japanese mid-shipman had spoken English. He had politely explained to Johnny that their vessel did not have the capacity to accept prisoners. Someone would return shortly to take them all prisoner, he said. Until then, they were condemned to remain marooned on an island with no obvious means of escape. In spite of this, everybody was elated by this outcome.
They were further surprised when Ian Stonor emerged from the jungle shortly after, accompanied by several Dutch soldiers. Everybody now gathered to hear their story.
Several were local Sumatran, dressed in sarongs and khaki shirts, and one Javanese, a non-commissioned officer in the military uniform of KNIL, the Dutch East Indies Army. Two of them stepped forward now, and the Admiral began to question them.
‘We are a forward observation post. He is my wireless operator,’ the officer said, pointing to the Javanese.
‘You have a radio?’
‘No. We smashed the radio when the destroyer came.’
Admiral Spooner let his exasperation show, hissing through his teeth, and after a brief discussion, insisted on inspecting the radio hut for himself.
When he returned, he convened a leadership meeting to discuss their situation and devise some sort of action plan. By now darkness was closing in, and soldiers and sailors alike lay or sat in groups in quiet discussion. If there was any despondency, it was not evident. They had salvaged food, water and some comforts from the Fairmile already. Charlie was incensed to learn that the Japanese had smashed his woks with their hammers and scattered his rice supply over the galley floor. He muttered to himself in Chinese, with a cadence that clearly expressed deep malevolence, even as he prepared a meal of tinned food over the embers of a wood fire. The aroma made the men realise they hadn’t eaten since before dawn.
Ernest Spooner sat on a squab salvaged from the boat’s wardroom. Next to him were Richard Pool and Johnny Bull; the two other Navy men, Frampton and Malcolm Henderson; the two Air Force men, Pulford and Atkins; and Ian Stonor, who sat with his back against a coconut palm, idly tossing a green coconut from one hand to the other. The sailors had been called to observe the meeting, and they sat with the Dutch soldiers on the periphery, smoking and watching.
Spooner called the ‘meeting’ to order.
‘All right,’ he began. There didn’t seem to be any point in standing on formality. The respect was implicit. The instinct for survival was shared by them all, irrespective of rank. ‘What have we got to work with?’
Johnny looked around the group, and then took the initiative. He and his motor mechanic had already been back out to the boat to inspect the damage and the possibility of repair.
‘The boat doesn’t look to be in a bad way, sir,’ he said, ‘and the prospects for repair look fair. There’s no radio – it hasn’t operated since Singapore – and electrical and wireless fittings, some instruments and parts of the main engines have been smashed with hammers. The electrical and fuel systems on both engines were undamaged, but the oil pipes are smashed. Petty Officer Johncock has a better understanding of the damage and how to repair it.’ He nodded towards Johnno.
‘The Commander is right, sir,’ Johnno said to the Rear Admiral. ‘They attacked the blocks but don’t seem to have done much damage there. Dented the manifolds. The pipes are bad. And it’s not just the oil pumps but the cooling system as well. With a bit of effort, though, we think we can replace the seals and braise the piping back into shape. They had a go at the lathes, but strangely enough they left the welding equipment alone. Maybe the fumes put them off.’
The Admiral looked at the Coxswain.
‘Any problem from your end, Leading Seaman?’
‘Nae, sir.’ Jock’s brogue made the Admiral smile.
‘It’s just a matter of time and the boys are raring to go,’ Jock added.
All eyes were now on the Admiral.
‘Right then. Johnny, you organise things on the boat. Richard, you support him from shore, and Ian, you take care of the shore party. Set up a watch and have your men establish some sort of order here. We need shelter. See if you can sort out the huts.’ There were several abandoned fishermen’s huts clustered near the shore. ‘Petty Officer Johncock, how much time do you need?’
This was the burning question.
‘Four? Six hours, sir, and we should have it working, one way or another. I can get started right away.’
Len watched for the officers’ reactions. Johnno’s confidence seemed to buoy the Admiral, but if Richard Pool’s furrowed brow was an indication, he was sceptical, but he said nothing. In spite of the problems in front of them, when a brief period of rest was offered and everybody dispersed, there was an air of optimism evident in the quiet conversations going on between the men.
★ ★ ★
The four military policemen had put some distance between themselves and the rest of the men on board, and now too sat apart. Being
apart came with the job. Len also sat alone. Ever since the action in the straits began, he had known instinctively that Tim and Jack Kindred were victims of the Japanese. There was the smoke, the oil slicks and the shattered flotsam, and they were still tending to the wounds of the men from the Aquarius. During the action he hadn’t had the time to give this any thought, but now he was on the island, his vision narrowed and his sight darkened as the walls of his world closed in on him once more, pressed by hard-edged thoughts, of friendship stolen, of loss, of anger.
Tim had had so much he did not have. Resilience. Humour. Ava. It occurred to Len that all three factors were related. He, Len, had resilience, and he was learning humour, but the obvious and unqualified love Tim and Ava had for each other was something of which he had no experience. And there was only one Ava. Len wasn’t jealous, though deep within himself he might acknowledge he had become a victim to Ava’s charms – even fallen in love a little with her soft, deep-throated laugh. But he could never betray his friend’s trust by allowing himself to go beyond that. No, he admired Tim and Ava, for their certainty. If he was guilty of anything, it was envy. He envied them their symmetry and the ease with which they came together. When Tim joked, Ava laughed. When Ava cautioned, Tim checked. When they walked, she fitted neatly under his arm.
How could he shield her from the truth? How could he avoid being the one to bring her the pain? The more he thought about it, the more angry he became, and he sat alone on the beach in the dark and ached for vengeance – or resolution; he wasn’t sure which. It did not come. The only thing that soothed him was the gentle rush of sound as each small wave reared up on the shore and swept along the sand.
★ ★ ★
The sailors were at work on the boat before the sun came up. Len and Jackie had volunteered to work the engine room pumps, not a place either would otherwise choose to be as it was so oppressive. They worked at lowering the water level while Johnno and his engine-room crew had stripped away the damaged pipes and were now trying to repair or replace them. Through some miracle it seemed the Japanese hadn’t tried to drain the petrol tanks or spoil the fuel. Perhaps they had plans of their own for ML310. Twice Johnno’s crew turned over the engines, but they refused to fire, causing a powerful odour of petrol to fill the engine room instead. With genuine trepidation, and only after the air had been allowed to clear, they tried a third time; incredibly, the engines fired, choked, then fired again, before finally settling into an erratic rhythm. The stokers allowed themselves a modest cheer, while Johnno watched the instruments carefully. Within a few minutes a couple of the pipes began to leak badly under pressure, and then the rhythm began to falter. Johnno banged at the temperature gauges with his knuckles, but the engines began to clatter, falter, then surge. He whacked the gauges once more, then reached out and shut the engines off. He spat on an engine block, leaving a wad of saliva that sizzled briefly before evaporating, and shook his head. ‘No pressure. They’re overheating. They won’t last five minutes.’
The silence was deafening; the consequences of what Johnno had said unequivocal. ML310 was stuck on the reef and would be going nowhere. Furthermore, water continued to leak into the engine room, suggesting that the seals around the propeller shafts had also been damaged.
The men had hardly noticed the arrival of the new day. It was 16 February.
★ ★ ★
On shore, work started at dawn. Some tidied the huts and took stock of the food and other resources, while a small group was sent off in search of anything else on the island that might help their situation. They worked away for several hours before their industry was interrupted by the noise of a plane, which prompted everybody to abandon their work and hide. A lone Japanese aircraft descended to look more closely at the Fairmile, sweeping over the top of the launch, still stuck fast on the coral. Then the plane came around and levelled out, on a course aiming straight for the boat. It lofted over the top of them and dropped a bomb. A cheer arose when the bomb overshot the launch and landed in the sea, forty yards wide. The aircraft circled again and came back a second time, and the cheering stopped when its machine guns began to stitch the sea with a line of bullets that headed straight for the boat and shredded bits off the superstructure. Then the plane turned away and resumed its course. Soldiers and sailors emerged from their respective boltholes. After a brief discussion, it was decided to rest during the day and work by night.
The crew returned to the boat after dark, accompanied by a couple of military engineers, and began to strip it of anything useful. Some, including Len, were actually in the water, attempting to recover objects jettisoned before the Japanese boarding. They worked away in darkness, feeling their way around the sea floor. On board, they worked by torchlight. In spite of their predicament, the mood was reasonably buoyant; the men chatted away while they worked, and the talk turned to rugby, a matter of fierce competition between England and New Zealand. A beefy sergeant of engineers suggested that, on the rugby field, a good big man would beat a good little man any day of the week.
‘Bollocks,’ said Jackie, who was about half the Englishman’s size. ‘Size doesn’t matter. It’s tactics, mate. Go fast and go early. Then you’ll see what happens.’
‘That may be, lad, but first you have to get past us.’
Jackie looked at his challenger.
‘Ha!’ he retorted. ‘You big bastards are easy. Blokes like you can’t hack the pace. By half-time you’re buggered and we run rings around you. Go fast and go early. Works every time.’
‘I don’t think so,’ the sergeant replied.
‘It’s been working for us,’ said Jackie.
‘It’s been working for the Japanese,’ offered Len.
His words carried a profound and unpleasant truth, and from the silence that followed it was clear his point hadn’t been lost. And he didn’t notice that Johnny had overheard the conversation.
★ ★ ★
Early the next morning, 17 February, the officers, including the Javanese Commandant, met together. Johnny reported his depressing assessment of the Fairmile’s condition.
Shortly after, Johnny quietly called Jock, Len and Johnno into conversation with Richard Pool. They sat under the trees out of the sun.
‘Listen carefully, boys. There’s been a development. We’ve found a boat; a native prahu. It’s in a bad way, but there’s little choice.’
He had their interest.
‘I’ve persuaded the Admiral to let us try and fix it, make it seaworthy and attempt a rescue, and I need your help.’
They looked at each other.
‘It’s flat bottomed, hard chined, with a sail. The timber’s not bad, but the caulking is some sort of bark, and it needs replacing.’
Len saw Pool shake his head. What was he doing there? Len wondered. Johnny must have seen it too.
‘It’s all we’ve got,’ Johnny said. ‘With a small group, moving quickly? I think we can do it.’
‘Let’s have a look at it, then,’ said Jock.
They found the boat in undergrowth at the far end of the beach. It was as Johnny described it.
‘Will it stay afloat?’ asked Pool.
‘They sail well,’ offered Len, irked by Pool’s pessimism.
‘Is Mr Pool coming with us?’ asked Jock pointedly.
‘Yes,’ answered Johnny. ‘The Admiral has recommended Lieutenant Pool for his small boat experience.’
Apart from Pool, the Admiral had left selection of the rest of the crew for this task to Johnny, who did so without hesitation. Johnno’s maturity and experience, Jock’s seamanship, and probably Len’s small boat skills made the three obvious choices, or so it seemed to Len.
‘We’re going to repair the prahu on Katjangan,’ Johnny said. ‘The Japs are paying us too much attention here. Lieutenant Pool and I will plan the route from there. We’ll need to prepare for a journey of ten or more days. Hopefully we can make Batavia in less time than that, but there is the weather to consider, not to mention avoiding t
he Japanese.’ He gestured around the little group. ‘So, we have to work well and not waste time. I reckon on forty-eight hours.’
Jock spoke up. ‘And how long do you think the voyage will take us?’
‘Batavia? I can’t be sure. Hopefully we get there before the Japs do.’
Jock smiled at his Commander’s familiarity, while Richard Pool squirmed at it.
‘It’s at least 350 miles,’ Johnny continued. ‘And ten days at the most, weather permitting.’
They pondered the statistics. This was going to be no mean feat, even without the threat of marauding Japanese. Thirty-five miles a day was a realistic goal, but they could not anticipate the weather, and rowing or sailing day after day for ten days would tax their stamina and endurance. But, except perhaps for Richard Pool with his injured hand, they were all fit and healthy. The three ratings watched Johnny keenly. They were almost smiling. Len wondered – was it the excitement, or the absurdity of the venture?
Johnny looked at his crew. ‘I’m offering you men this because if we fail, I know it won’t be for want of trying.’
They all heard the challenge embedded in Johnny’s statement. They were being invited to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire; things would likely get worse before they got better. But they knew that, without any attempt at escape, they would become prisoners. Or perish. Len saw it as a clear choice. He saw no honour in sitting there, helpless. His uncles didn’t die sitting on their arses. They needed to succeed – he needed to succeed – for his crew mates, for his mother and for Tim.
Okea ururoatia.
Fight like a shark.
He offered his hand to Johnny, who shook it with conviction. Jock looked nonplussed to have been beaten off the mark, and thrust his own hand forward. Johnno followed, saying, ‘We’ve a better chance of success than most, sir.’