The Name of Valour

  ‘Precisely. And giving evidence against him at a court martial isn’t my way. What if he isn’t found guilty? What if it doesn’t even get to a court martial? We’ve still got to serve with him. Even if he is found guilty, you gotta remember, Soupy Campbell’s a highly respected NCO with medals from here to Bangalore. He’s a popular bloke in the battalion. D’you want to be remembered as the bloke who put him in front of a firing squad?’

  ‘I don’t care how many medals he’s got. That doesn’t give him the right to go round shooting innocent auld men. This is partly your fault, you know.’

  ‘My fault! How the hell d’you work that out?’

  ‘You were the one who suggested to Soupy the old man might be a fifth colyumist. He might still be alive if you’d only kept your gob shut.’

  ‘Don’t you try and pin this on me. I never told Soupy to shoot the old bugger, did I?’

  It must have been nearly five o’clock by the time they had finished burying the body. They made their way back to the house where they were billeted with the rest of Campbell’s section, climbing the rickety ladder to the veranda. The door was two feet wide and four feet high, and Torrance and Rossi had to sink to their haunches to enter. There was no sign of Campbell, but Kerr, Grant and the other men of the section were already stirring, going through their morning chorus of coughing, belching, farting and scratching their balls. As Torrance rose to his feet and moved across the floor, he was conscious of the split bamboo slats bending under his weight. At a hundred and sixty pounds he reckoned he weighed more than the average Malay, and one of these days he was sure a floor like this was going to snap beneath him, depositing him in the goat pen below.

  He pulled his gas cape off over his head and shrugged off his pack, unbuckling the flap to rummage inside. Pulling out a tattered copy of Picture Post, he leafed through its pages.

  Grant indicated the picture on the magazine’s front cover. ‘Who’s that?’

  Torrance had to glance at the cover to remind himself. ‘That, Titch me old son, is Miss Veronica Lake, a starlet rapidly ascending in the Hollywood firmament.’

  ‘She’s a bit of awreet,’ Grant acknowledged magnanimously. ‘Bonny knockers on her. Aye, I could tap that till the cows come home.’

  ‘“Bonny knockers”?’ Torrance echoed in disgust. ‘You know what your problem is, Titch? You’ve got no bleedin’ class.’

  ‘An’ I suppose you’re Fred fuckin’ Astaire?’

  ‘Listen, mate, I can put on the charm when I’ve a mind to. I’ve had my share of classy bints.’

  ‘Oh, aye, I’ve seen the taxi-girls you go running after in the dance halls.’ Grant fingered one of the nine pairs of shorts hung up to dry on a log-line – a five-foot coil of thin rope every British soldier was issued with – suspended from the ceiling. Evidently they were still damp, for he grimaced and left them where they were. ‘Faces like the back end of a bus, and twice as cheap to ride on.’

  ‘Mock all you like. I’ve got aspirations, I have. You won’t catch me spending my whole life in the army, getting shot at in dusty places to defend His Majesty’s Empire for a pittance. Soon as this war’s over, I’m out. I’m gonna make something of myself.’

  ‘Gaunae become a millionaire, are you?’ Rossi asked with a grin. ‘What are you gaunae do? Strike oil? Become a movie star?’

  ‘Listen, a bloke from humble origins can make something of himself if he puts his mind to it. I’ll work out what the next big thing is going to be, and get in on it early.’

  ‘Oh, well, there you have it,’ said Rossi. ‘I reckon you’ve cracked it there, Slugger. I’ll bet nobody’s ever thought o’ doin’ that before.’

  ‘Television.’ When it came to his plans for the future, Torrance preferred to play his cards close to his chest, but Rossi’s mockery had stung him into showing his hand.

  ‘Television!’ Rossi laughed. ‘How are you gaunae make money out o’ television? The only people who want to pay that much to watch fuzzy images in the comfort of their own homes are people with more money than sense.’

  ‘The only people who want to pay that much to watch fuzzy images in the comfort of their own homes now are people with more money than sense,’ agreed Torrance. ‘But it’s new technology, innit? When the first wirelesses came, you could hardly make out a word they were saying. But here we are, a few years down the line, and it’s like Tommy Handley and Mrs Mopp are standing right next to you. It’ll be the same with television – instead of just listening to invaders from Mars on the wireless, you’ll be able to watch ’em too, as clear as if they were right there in the room with you.’

  ‘I don’t think my ma will take to the idea of alien invaders in our front parlour.’

  ‘Television’s gonna be big after the war. In a few years, I reckon everyone will have a television set in their home. And I’ll be making a fortune. I’m gonna have a Rolls-Royce. Smoke big, fat Havana cigars. You can come and work for me, if you like. I might even put you on my board of directors.’

  ‘And join the exploitative capitalist class?’ Rossi was not nicknamed ‘Lefty’ because he was left-handed. ‘No, thank you!’

  ‘You say that now, but we’ll see how well your socialist principles hold up when I’m sitting on my yacht off Monte Carlo, surrounded by Hollywood starlets, while you’re sweeping the Garscube Road.’

  CSM Fraser entered with a crate in his arms, his Thompson slung from one shoulder. He put the crate on the floor in one corner, prising up the lid to reveal a dozen bottles arranged within.

  ‘What’s that, then, sar’nt major?’ asked Torrance. ‘Some bottles of McEwan’s Blue Label in honour of the King’s birthday?’

  ‘They are not.’ Fraser pulled out one of the bottles and held it up to show the rest of the section. ‘We are not expecting the Japs to attack again before we’ve pulled back south of the Slim River. But just in case they do, and they’re using tanks, the army’s come up with these.’

  ‘Molotov cocktails?’ said Torrance. ‘You’re having a laugh, intcher?’

  ‘Silence in the ranks, Private Torrance. To ignite them, ye rub the striker of a box of matches against this strip here.’ He pointed to where something that looked suspicously like it had come from an ice lolly was stuck to the outside.

  ‘What if you ain’t got a matchbox, sar’nt major?’

  ‘Do not be telling me ye dinna carry matches, Torrance. Have I not seen ye with my own eyes, smoking your fancy English cigarettes?’

  Torrance produced his lighter. ‘Got a fancy English lighter for my fancy English cigarettes, don’t I?’

  Fraser grimaced and ferreted in a pocket for a box of matches which he tossed to Torrance, who caught it and stuffed it in a pocket. ‘Ta.’

  ‘I’ll have those back when ye no longer have need of them.’ Fraser replaced the Molotov cocktail in the crate with the others. ‘These are not toys, mind, so do not be touching them till you’re ordered to by myself or Corporal Campbell. See that they obey, Kerr.’

  Kerr snapped to attention. ‘You can depend on me, sar’nt major.’

  The expression on Fraser’s face suggested he very much doubted it.

  ‘How is it we hivnae got any tanks, sar’nt major?’ asked Baird.

  ‘Ye cannot use tanks in the jungle,’ said Fraser.

  ‘They work just fine on the bloody roads, though, don’t they?’ said Torrance. ‘The Japs have proved that!’

  ‘I guess no one told them at Horse Guards there are tarmac roads here in Malaya nowadays,’ said Rossi. ‘You want to know what I think?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Torrance.

  ‘I think they need every tank they can get fighting the Afrika Korps. Winston Churchill’s strategy for fighting the Japs at the same time as the Jerries? Cross his fingers and hope it never happens.’

  ‘Aye, well, it’s happened now,’ said Fraser. ‘So we’ll just have to deal with it, won’t we?’ He went out.

  Baird, who was orderly for the day, entered with a di
xie. ‘Tea up, lads! Get it while it’s hot!’ He carried the dixie to each man in turn so he could dip his mug in it, but bypassed Torrance.

  ‘Oh, so I’m still in the doghouse, then?’

  ‘No tea for you, Slugger. Soupy says you’re to report to him in the transport harbour.’

  ‘Shit.’ Torrance put his gas cape back on and went outside again, his ammo boots splashing through the puddles as he sauntered up the road. It was still dark, and the beams of two headlights, narrowed to slits by packing tape, slashed through the rain: a Quad tractor growling around the corner, towing a Breda two-pounder.

  At the transport harbour, Corporal Campbell leaned against one of the carriers, talking to Private ‘Lennie’ Lennox, who squatted over the wireless in the back with half the headphone set pressed to one ear while he fiddled with the dials and switches. ‘It’s no’ good, Corp’,’ he was telling Campbell. ‘I cannae get any signal.’

  ‘What’s the range on that thing?’ The corporal had evidently sobered up since the last time Torrance had seen him.

  ‘Five miles for voice transmission. Ten for Morse. But wi’ the trees and the rain…’

  ‘…You might as well use two tin cans and a piece of string,’ said Torrance.

  ‘He’s no’ far wrong, corp,’ said Lennox. ‘These Mark Eighteen sets may be all very well inna desert, but out here inna jungle they’re next to useless.’

  ‘Awreet. Save your batteries. We’ll try again after dawn.’ Motioning with a jerk of his head for Torrance to follow him, Campbell made his way around one of the six-wheeled Lanchester armoured cars parked nearby. Crouching in its lee, they were able to get some shelter from the rain. Campbell took out a cigarette tin and proffered it. Never one to turn down a free fag when it was offered, Torrance plugged one in the corner of his mouth and let Campbell light it for him. ‘Ta.’

  ‘If Lefty grasses me up to Mr Erskine for bumping that old Chinaman, will you back him up?’

  ‘Depends,’ said Torrance. ‘What’s it worth for me to keep my trap shut?’

  ‘You know what they’ll do to me if I’m found guilty by a court martial? I’ll lose my tapes!’

  ‘If they find you guilty of bumping an innocent civilian, losing your tapes will be the least of it. They’ll put you in front of a firing squad, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Aye, well, who’s to say he was innocent?’

  ‘I am. Those leaves weren’t pointing at anything, ’cept maybe the battalion latrine.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Slugger! You told me he was a fifth colyumist! You got me into this mess!’

  ‘Don’t try to put the blame on me, Soupy. I didn’t tell you to shoot him, did I?’

  ‘Use your head. With Murray dead, I’m a shoo-in to replace him as sergeant. They’ll be looking for someone to replace me as corporal. I could put in a good word for you with Mr Erskine—’

  ‘Don’t be daft! With my reputation for insubordination? Besides, what about Primsie? He’s already got a dog’s-leg.’

  Campbell shook his head. ‘Primsie’s a dead loss as a non-com, Slugger. I overheard Erskine discussing it with the CSM last week. The only two in our section who are even in the running are you and Dicky. You’ll get it with my recommendation, but you have to do something for me first. You have to get Lefty to go no further with his threats.’

  ‘What makes you think Lefty will listen to me?’

  ‘You and him are mates, are you no’?’

  Torrance laughed at that. ‘Yeah, the way Hitler and Stalin were mates, before Hitler invaded Russia. Lefty’s not gonna listen to anything I tell him.’

  ‘That depends what you tell him.’

  ‘What do you suggest I tell him?’

  ‘Tell him we’re all in this together. That we’ve got to keep one another’s backs covered.’ Campbell took out his bayonet and toyed with it. Like Torrance’s, it was one of the old-pattern sword-bayonets, useful for opening tins, cutting up bread or even as a weapon, not like the modern, mass-produced spike bayonets new recruits were issued with, which were no use for anything except sticking on the end of your rifle and jamming into a man’s guts, and not much cop at that. ‘Otherwise who’s to say what may happen?’

  ‘Two days ago you were hoping for a chance to leave me behind for the Japs the way I left Murray. Now we’re all in this together?’ Torrance shook his head. ‘Fuck you, Soupy. You want someone to make implied threats to Lefty, find someone else. I ain’t your errand boy. Ta for the smoke.’ Torrance pinched out the cigarette, tucked the dog-end behind his ear, then ducked back into the rain, heading back towards the house where the rest of the section was billeted.

  As he made his way up the Trunk Road, he heard the clank and squeal of caterpillar tracks cutting through the hiss of the rain. More Bren carriers, thought Torrance. One of the sentries at the roadblock switched on his torch and directed the beam at the approaching vehicles, signalling them to stop.

  Someone set off a flare, the harsh glow of the burning magnesium illuminating four Japanese medium tanks almost as bright as day.

  Four

  The tanks advanced along the road at a stately but inexorable pace, their rivet-studded steel hulls bedecked with sprigs of foliage, the tracks making a rattling sound like someone clattering a stick against the corrugated side of a Nissen hut. Their turrets turned this way and that, traversing their stubby but nevertheless deadly six-pounder guns in search of targets.

  A Vickers had opened up from the weapons pit covering the roadblock, though its bullets clanged harmlessly off the armour of the first tank. The tanks returned fire with their own machine guns. Bullets tore through the hiss of the rain, glowing tracer rounds arcing through the night like angry fireflies. A cannon roared, a tongue of flame lashing the darkness. One of the Malay houses erupted in a ball of flame, and then the kampong was bathed in a hellish glow, silhouetting the column of tanks.

  Torrance ducked off the road and hurried through the shadows beneath the trees. As he ran behind the stilt houses, he caught occasional glimpses of the mayhem through the gaps between them as he raced back to the transport harbour. He found what he was looking for in the back of one of the Bren gun carriers: a Boys anti-tank rifle. Hefting it in his arms – it was a foot and a half longer than a Bren gun, and fourteen pounds heavier – he ran back to where Rossi had taken cover in the drainage ditch by the side of the road and was blazing away futilely with his Lee-Enfield.

  Torrance joined him in the ditch, folding the Boys’ bipod down and bracing the heavily padded butt against his shoulder. He sighted down the barrel, wondering if there was a weak spot he should try for.

  ‘What should I aim at?’ he asked Rossi.

  ‘Try yon ruddy great tank!’

  ‘I know that! Which part of the tank, you bleedin’ smart alec?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  Torrance aimed for the ball socket on which the lead tank’s hull machine gun was mounted: if he could put that out of action, it would be a start. Grasping the rifle’s pistol grip with his right hand, his left on the secondary handle jutting down from the butt, he took his time, taking a deep breath, holding it for a moment, then exhaling slowly and squeezing the trigger as he did so. The rifle recoiled bruisingly into his shoulder, and the ·55 ̎ bullet – supposedly capable of penetrating armour plate an inch thick – glanced off the tank with a harmless ping.

  ‘Shit!’ Torrance worked the bolt action to drop a second round from the rifle’s magazine into the breech. He fired again, this time aiming at the driver’s viewing port: if he could ping a shot through there, it might do all kinds of harm to the crew as it ricocheted off the armour plating on the inside. He heard it ricochet into the undergrowth on the far side of the road. He did not see where the next shot went, but it certainly did no damage to the tank. He aimed at the tracks, saw the bullet strike sparks from the sprocket wheel, but the treads were undamaged.

  One shot left; he had not thought to grab any spare magazines from th
e carrier. He had to make this one count. The turret traversed again, bringing the gun to bear on a lorry parked in front of the houses. If there was a shell in the breech, and he could ping a shot down the barrel, he might yet do some real damage to the tank.

  He took his time. It was a million-to-one shot, but it might just work…

  He squeezed the trigger. Again the recoil slammed into his shoulder. The bullet pinged harmlessly off the turret. It did not even scratch the paint, as far as he could see.

  The tank’s cannon boomed, scoring a direct hit on the lorry, the resulting explosion turning it into an inferno of tangled scrap metal.

  Rossi pulled the pin from a Mills bomb and lobbed it at the tank. It bounced on the tarmac and rolled between the tracks. A moment later it exploded, flames shooting out between the wheels.

  The tank rolled on, unharmed. Behind it, the second tank opened up with its hull machine gun. The bullets stitched a line across the tarmac a few inches in front of the ditch where Torrance and Rossi crouched, splashing muddy water in their eyes.

  ‘Sod this!’ Torrance indicated the Boys rifle. ‘I might as well be using a bloody pea-shooter!’

  Rossi nodded and the two of them abandoned the ditch, dashing away from the road to take cover in the shadows beneath the veranda of one of the stilt houses. There they found Grant firing his Bren over a stack of firewood, Baird beside him ready to slam a fresh magazine into the breech when needed. It took a strong man to fire a Bren from a standing position at all; to fire it thus with accuracy took a special kind of artist. Grant handled the Bren as easily as Torrance handled his rifle. Not that either of them was doing much good: Torrance could not help but think that if Grant really wanted to damage one of the tanks, he would have been better off walking up to it and delivering a sharp head-butt.

  Another Argyll ran out of the shadows with a flaming Molotov cocktail in one hand. The tank’s machine gun cut him down, but not before he had dashed his incendiary against the hull. Its armour plating now aflame with burning petrol, the tank ploughed on regardless. It was only a hundred yards from the bridge at the far end of the kampong.