‘Good,’ said Mitsumoto. ‘We’ll contact him again this time tomorrow.’
Ogata passed the message back and signed off.
Mitsumoto took out his map again and tapped it with a fingertip. ‘According to our calculations, the aeroplane crashed somewhere around here. That’s only fifty-three kilometres south .’
‘On the other side of the British lines,’ Ishikawa pointed out.
‘By this time tomorrow, White Tiger will have the survey in his hands, and the British will have fallen back past his position again. The survey is as good as ours!’
* * *
The man who had designed the Bren gun carrier had not bothered with doors. If you wanted to get into the driver’s seat, you had to climb over the side, drop into the passenger seat, and then slide across behind the wheel, preferably without catching your backside on the gearstick en route.
Torrance set the choke and throttle, checked the handbrake was on, shifted the gearstick to neutral, flicked the ignition switch and pressed the starter button. There was no mistaking the sound of the engine misfiring, even over the drumming of the rain against the rubberised groundsheet Torrance and Rossi had stretched between four trees to provide them with some semblance of shelter while they worked on the engine. Torrance flicked the ignition off. In the back, Rossi unscrewed the oil-filler cap and leaned over the partition behind the front compartment to show the underside of the cap to Torrance by the light of a mechanic’s work lamp. It was coated with a creamy-coloured gunk.
‘Yon’s a sure sign of a leaking manifold, is it no’?’
‘Maybe. Or maybe it’s a cracked block, a cracked cylinder head… or perhaps nothing more sinister than condensation in the oil. But if I was a betting man – which, as it happens, I am – I’d lay you ten to one what we’ve got is a blown head gasket.’
Torrance climbed into the back of the carrier and unscrewed the panel from the engine housing, disconnected the fuses from the ignition and the fuel system, and used a socket wrench to remove the spark plugs. As each one came out, he inspected the bottom. The third was wet to the touch and he showed it to Rossi. ‘That’s where the problem is. A spark plug ought to be as dry as a pharaoh’s jockstrap.’
He returned the wet plug to its housing, took the cap off the radiator and topped it up with water. ‘Give the motor a crank.’
Rossi dropped down into the passenger seat, slid across behind the wheel and cranked the motor. The engine turned over wheezily.
Torrance saw bubbles forming in the radiator water. ‘It’s the head gasket all right. We’ve got water leaking into the coolant passages, mixing with the oil.’
‘Can we fix it?’
‘We’ll have to indent for a new head gasket. She’ll run without damaging the cylinder heads in the meantime, as long as we keep an eye on the radiator level. If we don’t lose more than half a gallon every hundred miles or so, it should be okay.’
Torrance packed away his tools and put out the lamp. Both he and Rossi put on their gas capes and headed out into the rain. The fat drops shattered against the tarmac of the Trunk Road, bouncing back up again to create a fine, knee deep mist.
Rossi leaped over the flooded drainage ditch at the side of the road. Torrance followed, his feet skidding in the mud beneath the carpet of sodden leaves on the other side, and landed heavily on his backside, more startled than hurt.
‘Shit!’ He picked himself up quickly, but not fast enough to stop the wet from soaking the seat of his baggy, knee-length shorts – ‘Bombay bloomers’ in army parlance.
Rossi turned back to see what he was swearing about, and burst out laughing when he saw Torrance brushing wet leaves from his backside. ‘Did you fall over?’
‘I slipped!’
‘Oh, you slipped. Well, that makes all the difference.’
‘Bloody country,’ Torrance muttered under his breath as he followed Rossi across another plantation. ‘What the Japs want with it beats me.’
‘They’re after the rubber…’ Rossi gestured at the trees planted in rigidly aligned rows, five yards between each one and the next. ‘And the tin. It’s all about the sinews of war, the raw materials.’
‘So they want to conquer the world so they’ve got the raw materials to conquer the world? That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Who says fascist dictators have to make sense? Mind you, are we any better?’
Torrance thought about it, but not for long. ‘Yes. Yes, we are.’
‘Are we, though but? We only conquer countries like Malaya for the raw materials—’
‘Actually, we’re here by invitation. The sultans invited us in so we could protect their country.’
‘Aye, well, if we’re here to protect the Malays frae the Japs, I widnae say we’re doing a bang-up job of it so far. Look… Slugger… about the other day…’
‘What about the other day?’
‘When Soupy pushed you back against the side of the Bren gun carrier… you’re right, it was assault. I’m no’ saying I approve of you leaving Sar’nt Murray for the Japs, mind, but still… that didnae give Soupy the right to rough you up like that.’
‘Oh, now you’re prepared to back me up – when none of the others are around to hear!’
‘Are you no’ listening? I’m saying if you want to report him, I’ll be your witness.’
Torrance shook his head. ‘Never grass on a comrade.’
‘You mean, you’re gaunae let him get away with it?’
Torrance bridled. ‘Now, I never said that. I’ll deal with Soupy in my own time. But when I do, I’ll do it my way, and without crawling to bleedin’ Mr Foreskin.’ ‘Mr Foreskin’ was their nickname for their platoon commander, Lieutenant Frederick Erskine.
Torrance heard a noise above the hiss of the rain on the leaves. ‘What’s that?’
‘What’s what?’
‘That sound?’
‘Sounds like my bed calling. It’s saying, “Come in out of the rain, you silly barmpot.”’
‘Shhh!’ Torrance shrugged off his pack and dug around inside it, producing a flashlight. He switched it on and the beam picked out the slashing rain. He moved it around. It passed over a figure, passed on, then moved back to pinpoint an old Chinese man wearing a coolie hat. Dazzled by the torch, he raised one hand to shield his eyes. The other hand held a rake.
‘Just some auld Chinese man,’ said Rossi. Nearly half the population of Malaya were Chinese immigrants or their descendants.
‘“Chinaman”, you mean,’ said Torrance.
‘What?’
‘The word is “Chinaman”.’
‘Don’t be daft!’ Rossi said scornfully. ‘You say “Scotsman”, no’ “Scotlandman”, right? It’s “Englishman”, no’ “Englandman”. So it’s “Chinese man”, not “Chinaman”. He’s no’ made of porcelain!’
Torrance was fairly sure the expression was ‘Chinaman’, but he could not fault Rossi’s logic. He shook his head dismissively: there were more pressing matters to attend to. ‘Hey, you!’ He beckoned the old man to approach.
The old man made a Who, me? gesture.
‘Yeah, you. Come here.’
‘No speakee English.’
‘Yeah,’ said Torrance. He was used to the Chinese not speaking English. They spoke it fluently enough when they had something to sell you, but if you had any kind of complaint, suddenly their knowledge of the English language failed them as if it had never been. ‘What are you doing out in this rain at this time of night?’
‘No savvy.’
‘Aw, leave him alone,’ said Rossi. ‘He disnae understand.’
‘He understands all right,’ said Torrance. ‘What you do out in rain and dark?’ he asked in pidgin English.
The old man showed them his rake.
‘You can see what he’s up to,’ said Rossi. ‘He’s raking the leaves.’
‘In the rain? Who sweeps up leaves when it’s raining?’
‘We’re in Malaya. It’s always raining. When el
se is he gaunae sweep up leaves?’
‘It doesn’t always rain in the mornings.’ Torrance shone the torch at the leaves. The old man had swept them into three long piles, all joined at one end.
‘I bloody knew it,’ said Torrance. ‘He’s a bleedin’ fifth columnist!’
‘Aye, I can see it now,’ said Rossi. ‘Auld Tojo strides into the Imperial throne room and bows before Hirohito. “Your Majesty, I’ve assembled a battalion of fifth columnists, all specially training in leaf-sweeping, and equipped them with brooms and rakes. They’ll penetrate the enemy lines and tidy up the billets, all ready for us to move in.”’
‘Shut your trap for a minute and look!’ Torrance played the beam of the torch over the glistening mounds of wet leaves. ‘Doesn’t that look like anything to you?’
‘Aye, it looks like a pile of leaves.’
‘Now try to imagine it’s day, and you’re a Jap pilot flying overhead. What’s that pile of leaves going to look like then?’
‘I’m no’ sure a pilot would even be able to see it.’
‘Sure he would. And he’d see a big arrow, pointing directly at our battalion HQ.’
The old man tried to run for it. Torrance caught him in a few seconds. The old man swung the rake at him. Torrance seized it in one hand, jerking it out of the old man’s grip and tossing it aside just as Rossi ran up. Torrance shone the torch’s beam in the old man’s eyes. ‘Is that it? You fifth columnist? You signal to Jap planes?’
‘Leave him alone!’ said Rossi. ‘He’s just an auld feller.’
‘He’s not, he’s a bloody fifth columnist! How else d’you think the Jap bombers can always find us so easily? Because of treacherous bastards like this old sod.’
‘What’s goin’ on here?’
Torrance redirected the torch’s beam and picked out Campbell, swaying slightly on his feet and looking very flushed in the face.
‘Interrogating a suspected fifth columnist, corp,’ said Torrance. ‘Caught him sweeping up leaves into the shape of an arrow pointed at our battalion HQ.’
Campbell moved closer to inspect the old man for himself. Torrance could smell whisky on his breath. ‘Is that true, Fu Manchu? Are you signalling to the Jap planes?’
‘Not signal to Jap planes,’ said the old man. ‘Sweep up leaves.’
‘Don’t fuckin’ lie to me!’ Campbell slapped him backhanded. The old man reeled and tripped, sprawling in the mud. ‘You’re a fuckin’ fifth colyumist, aren’t you?’
‘Steady on, Soupy!’ said Rossi. ‘He’s just an auld man.’
The old man rose on to his hands and knees. Campbell slammed the sole of one boot into his ribs, sending him sprawling again. ‘You fuckin’ dirty Chink bastard! You bastards are all the same!’
Torrance winced. ‘Maybe we should just turn him over to the intelligence-wallah, Soupy. Let him sort him out.’
‘We don’t need the I-wallah,’ said Campbell. ‘We can sort this bastard out for ourselves.’
‘Hate Shrimp Barbarians,’ said the old man. ‘They killed my daughter and her husband at Nanking.’
Campbell unslung his Thompson and pulled back the cocking handle. ‘I’m gaunae fuckin’ bump him! On your feet, you!’
Gibbering with fear, the old man remained where he grovelled, his arms raised against the blinding light of the torch Torrance shone in his face.
‘For God’s sake, corp!’ said Rossi. ‘You canna do that! He’s just some auld feller!’
‘He’s a bloody fifth colyumist, I tell you! Get up, you!’ Campbell kicked at the old man. ‘On your feet!’ When the old man still did not move, the corporal caught him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him to his feet. ‘Start walking.’
Weeping now, the old man hobbled out of the relative shelter into the rain. Campbell levelled the tommy gun.
Rossi grabbed the barrel of the gun and forced it down. ‘For Christ’s sake, no! Yon’s a human being! Even if he is a fifth colyumist, you canna just take the law into your own hands and execute him!’
Campbell yanked the gun from Rossi’s grip, and slammed the butt into his midriff. Doubled up in agony, Rossi fell to his knees.
The tommy gun hammered out, the flames from its muzzle lighting up the scene for a second or two. When it fell silent, Torrance’s night vision was ruined and he could no longer see the old man.
‘That’s for Rab Murray,’ said Campbell.
Three
Torrance directed the torch’s beam to where he had last seen the old man. A huddled shape now sprawled near the pile of leaves, splashed with blood that was quickly diluted by the rain.
Rossi crouched over the corpse, feeling for a pulse in his neck. Rising to his feet, he turned to glare at Campbell. ‘Oh, that’s bloody marvellous, that is. Well done, Soupy. You’ve got your revenge now. Murray’s ghost can rest easy, now that you’ve bumped off some poor auld sod who probably never harmed anyone. You hero.’
Baird and MacLeod ran up, their gas capes glistening in the night where they were slick with rain. ‘What happened?’ demanded Baird. ‘What were they shots?’
‘Soupy just executed some harmless auld Chinese man because he didna like the way he swept up leaves,’ said Rossi.
More Argylls arrived, torches stabbing through the night, picking out Campbell, Rossi, Torrance and the dead Chinese.
‘What happened here?’ demanded CSM Fraser.
‘Corporal Campbell just murdered a Chinese, sar’nt major,’ said Rossi.
‘It wisnae murder,’ said Campbell. ‘It was an execution. He was a fifth colyumist.’
‘Is that true?’ Fraser asked Torrance.
‘That Corporal Campbell killed him? Or that he was a fifth columnist?’
‘If he was a fifth colyumist then I’m General Franco!’ said Rossi. ‘It was just some auld Chinese man. No’ that we’ll ever know the truth now, because Campbell appointed himself judge, jury and executioner and shot the poor auld sod before he could explain himself.’
‘Well, these things happen in war,’ said Fraser.
Rossi stared at him with an expression of disbelief on his face. ‘I beg your pardon, sar’nt major?’
‘It’s war, Rossi. People get shot.’
‘Soldiers get shot, I’ll grant you that. But that feller wisnae a soldier.’
‘If he was a fifth columnist—’
‘If he was a fifth coluymist, he should’ve been arrested, questioned, and given a chance to defend himself. No’ gunned down because Soupy Campbell was steamed up about his mate gettin’ bumped. It was cold-blooded murder, sar’nt major.’
‘And what do you want me to do about it?’
‘What do I want you to do about it? Well, you might start by arresting him.’ Rossi pointed to Campbell.
‘Dinna be ridiculous. It was just some auld Chinaman.’
‘Chinese man,’ said Torrance.
‘What?’ said Fraser.
‘Not “Chinaman”, sar’nt major. “Chinese man”. He’s not made of porcelain.’
‘What the divil are ye talking about?’
‘Auld Chinese men have got a right to a fair trial, same as the rest of us,’ said Rossi. ‘Are we no’ s’posed to be defending this country? If we go around shooting fellers whenever we feel like it, the people who live here are gaunae start wondering if they might not be better off if the Japs do conquer them!’
‘All right, Rossi, that’s enough of that kind of talk. I’ll report it to Mr Erskine.’
‘Are you no’ gaunae arrest Campbell?’
‘I said, I’ll report it to Mr Erskine! Rossi, Torrance, tidy up… that.’ Fraser indicated the corpse. ‘The rest of ye, get back to your posts.’
‘Tidy it up how?’ asked Torrance.
‘I believe burial is customary in these situations.’
‘Why me? I didn’t kill him.’
‘Neither did I!’ said Rossi.
‘Shut up, the pair of ye, and do as you’re told, or I’ll have you both on a charge.’
As the others returned to their billets, Torrance and Rossi assembled their entrenching tools. ‘Bloody hell, Lefty!’ grumbled Torrance. ‘Thanks a bloody bunch.’
‘How is this my fault? I didna shoot the auld sod. Hey, you know what this is, d’you no’?’
‘Yeah, it’s a stiff.’
‘It’s burying the evidence, that’s what it is. It’s concealing a crime.’
‘Yeah, well, orders are orders.’
‘“I’ll report it to Mr Erskine,” he says. He’s no more gaunae report it to Foreskin than I’m gaunae go up to Hitler and give him a big, wet, sloppy kiss.’
Torrance stopped working for a moment, gazing over to where they had left the pile of leaves. He laughed without much humour.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Rossi.
‘I’ve just realised – those leaves don’t point at our battalion HQ at all. If anything, they point towards the latrine pit.’
‘So he wisnae even a fifth colyumist? That does it! I’m definitely reporting this to Foreskin.’
‘I hate to break it to you, Lefty, but no one gives a stuff about some old bloody Chinese man.’
‘That’s ma point, Slugger. If it was me lying there, I’d want there to be someone who’d see to it I got justice. You were a witness. If I report it to Foreskin, will you back me up?’
‘Will I hell! If you report it to Foreskin, you’re on your own.’
‘I’d’ve thought you of all people would want to see Soupy sent to the glasshouse. Mebbe even put in front of a firing squad. Did you yourself no’ say just earlier tonight that you were gaunae get him your way?’
The Name of Valour Page 3