The Name of Valour

by The Name of Valour (retail) (epub)

  Turning away from the door, he found himself on the upper gantry above the bucket line at the front of the dredge. Glancing over the rail, he saw a drop of forty feet to the port side of the pontoon below. Apart from the door he had just come through, the only way off the gantry was a companion ladder leading to another gantry twenty feet below, and there were two Japanese soldiers coming up that.

  He was trapped.

  Twenty-Three

  Torrance leaned over the railing of the gantry, staring down at the two Japanese soldiers ascending to meet him. One of them paused to look up, blinking in the rain that washed across his face. Seeing Torrance above him, he levelled his rifle. Torrance threw himself backwards just as a bullet ricocheted off the railing.

  Crossing the gantry to the other side, he found himself gazing down at the corrugated roof of the control cabin, ten feet below. He vaulted over the railing, his ammo boots hitting the sloping roof with a thunderous boom. Sprawling, he found himself in danger of rolling off. He threw out an arm to save himself.

  Mitsumoto appeared above him, his face twisted with rage, the pistol barking in his fist. Torrance was already on his feet and running, boots clanging noisily on the corrugated iron. Leaping from the roof, he landed on the lower gantry. From there he jumped back on to the endlessly ascending bucket-line, awkwardly stepping from one bucket to the next as he made his way back down. When he judged he was low enough, he leaped to one of the girders below the control cabin, and from the girder to the surface of the pontoon. He landed awkwardly, searing pain exploding from his ankle.

  The two Japanese soldiers above him climbed down to the lower gantry: Torrance could hear their footsteps descending the companion ladder to the section of the pontoon on the far side of the bucket-line. He grabbed the Thompson from the corpse lying at the foot of the ladder leading up to the control cabin, and found a couple of spare magazines in the man’s utility pouches. He limped along the lower deck to the storeroom. The guards were no longer there – presumably they were the two men who had almost cornered him on the upper gantry – but someone had put a padlock on the door. A short burst from the Thompson shot off the hasp. He tore the door open, and Sheridan and Rossi stared out at him in astonishment.

  ‘Has our army counter-attacked?’ asked Rossi.

  ‘Only if by “our army” you mean me,’ said Torrance. ‘Out, lacas! That means chop-chop, doc.’

  The three of them ran along the lower deck to the gangplank, Torrance struggling to keep up, trying to ignore the shoots of pain from his ankle. They dashed through the rain to where he had parked the Riley. Shots sounded behind them. Torrance heard Sheridan gasp.

  ‘You’d better drive,’ she told Torrance.

  He thrust the Thompson into Rossi’s hands. ‘Get in the passenger seat.’

  ‘I’d rather have Gino in the back with me,’ said Sheridan.

  ‘No can do, doc.’ Torrance slid behind the wheel. ‘I need Lefty riding shotgun.’

  ‘It’s just that I think I’ve been shot, and I’ll need his help to stanch the blood.’

  ‘Shit!’

  Rossi and Sheridan got in the back, slamming the doors behind them. Torrance pulled out the choke, hit the starter, stepped on the gas pedal and cranked the engine. The motor wheezed without catching. He tried again. A bullet punched through the rear window, showering Sheridan and Rossi with shards of glass.

  ‘Would you like me to drive?’ Rossi asked sweetly.

  Torrance ignored him. ‘Come on, you bastard!’ he coaxed the engine as he cranked it again. Finally it roared into life. He eased down the gas pedal, swinging the bonnet around, and switched on the windscreen wipers. The beams from the headlights scythed through the curtains of rain in search of the dirt track leading back to the main road. A Japanese soldier stepped into the beams, levelling a Thompson. Torrance aimed straight for him, changing up into second and putting his foot down. The Japanese leaped aside, too late: Torrance felt the nearside mudguard clip him, tossing him into the reeds. And there was the track, up ahead. Torrance steered for it, changing up into third.

  The Riley jounced through a pothole, and Sheridan cried out in agony. ‘Where are you hit?’ asked Rossi.

  ‘Lower right back,’ she told him, sounding surprisingly calm. A lot calmer than Torrance felt, anyway. ‘And there’s a second wound in front where the bullet came out. I don’t think it hit anything vital, but you need to help me dress it.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we can have any light back here so I can see what I’m doing?’ Rossi asked Torrance.

  ‘Nothing doing!’ With the darkness outside and the wipers fighting a losing battle against the rain lashing the windscreen, Torrance was struggling to see where they were going as it was.

  ‘Aw, Jeez!’ groaned Rossi. ‘She’s bleeding like a stuck pig! Mebbe we should leave her for the Japs…’

  ‘Don’t you goddamned dare!’ gasped Sheridan.

  ‘Their doctors will take better care of her than we can.’

  ‘If they bother to treat her,’ said Torrance. ‘There are doctors in Singapore.’

  ‘That’s a hundred miles away!’

  ‘We can make it!’ said Torrance. Oh, Christ, please let us make it…

  ‘That’s, what, an hour and a half’s drive?’ said Sheridan. ‘I can stay alive that long… if you help me stanch the blood.’

  Sheridan gave Rossi instructions, and Torrance heard cloth tearing as the Glaswegian ripped off one of his sleeves for a makeshift bandage. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he saw a pair of headlights some distance behind them. They were still following the dirt track through the marshes, so it had to be Mitsumoto’s men, if not Mitsumoto himself.

  They reached the road – Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald smirked in the beams of the headlights – and Torrance turned the Riley on to the tarmac. He put his foot down, hoping to leave Mitsumoto’s men so far behind they would give up the chase. The sides of the road were invisible in the darkness, with only a streak of green or brown in the penumbra of the headlights to show Torrance where the tarmac ended. The Riley’s tyres skidded in the wet. He tried to compensate, always turning into the skid, riding it instead of fighting it. Even so, when a sharp turn came up without warning, the tyres aquaplaned across the surface water, out of control, and very nearly ended up with both nearside wheels in the overflowing drainage ditch. Instead the Riley managed to spin through two and a half complete rotations before slithering to a halt in the middle of the road. Torrance sat there for a moment, his chest too tight to let him catch his breath, heart pounding against his ribcage, arms rigid, both hands gripping the steering wheel so as not to betray their trembling, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?’ asked Rossi.

  Torrance chose not to dignify that with a response, scowling at Rossi in the rear-view mirror. ‘You okay back there, doc?’

  Sheridan did not reply. ‘I think she’s passed out,’ said Rossi. ‘To tell the truth, I don’t think she’ll make it.’

  ‘She’s gonna make it!’ snarled Torrance. He put the car back in gear and started her up again, driving a little more cautiously now. There was no sense in going hell-for-leather if that meant they did not get there in one piece. At least they had lost the car that was following them.

  Or so he thought. After half an hour, he began to catch occasional glimpses of a pair of headlights through the rain behind them. Of course, it was not necessarily driven by one of Mitsumoto’s men… even so, some gut instinct told Torrance to put his foot down. He began taking chances again, the tyres sending great curtains of water arcing across the roadsides as the Riley careered through rain-spattered puddles.

  They passed a sign: ‘Johore 10 miles’. Torrance glanced at the fuel gauge: the needle was at zero. Those things always underestimated how much fuel was left anyway.

  The other car was no more than thirty yards behind them. Torrance glanced in the mirror and was dazzled by its headlights. So
mething whizzed past his ear, and cracks raced across the windscreen as two bullet holes appeared in it. Rossi knelt on the back seat to fire a couple of bursts through the rear window with the Thompson.

  ‘It’s Mitsumoto!’ he yelled over his shoulder.

  Somehow Torrance had thought it must be. Mitsumoto’s men would have given up fifty miles back; only Mitsumoto himself was fanatical enough to pursue them so far. ‘Shoot the bastard!’

  ‘I’m trying to!’

  ‘Try harder!’ Torrance put his foot down, but Mitsumoto’s driver seemed to have no difficulty keeping up with them in the wet, was even gaining on them.

  The Riley’s headlights picked out an army lorry parked by the roadside. Torrance swerved to the left to avoid it. There was a second stationary lorry in front of it, and a third one beyond that… dozens of them parked bonnet to tailgate, narrowing the road to a single lane. A Japanese soldier stepped out from between two of them. Torrance did not have time or room to avoid him; fortunately the soldier leaped back a heartbeat before he bounced off the Riley’s bonnet.

  The lorries came to an end. Beyond them were parked dozens of tanks. Sentries huddled in rain capes swore as the two cars with U-Kikan pennants tore past, dousing them with puddle-water. Torrance grinned: the Japanese were not expecting any British to come from behind their lines, and if their armour was massing here for a final assault on Johore, then it could not be much further to the British lines.

  A motorcycle dispatch rider coming the other way wobbled when he saw the Riley’s headlights bearing down on him, swerving at the last moment to plunge into the flooded drainage ditch. Torrance had almost reached the head of the column of tanks when one of them suddenly pulled out of line, slewing across the road to block the Riley’s escape. Torrance had no time to stop, no choice but to swerve across a couple of boards forming a bridge over the drainage ditch and smashing through a five-barred gate beyond. The wooden planks splintered under the impact, but the Riley did not have it all its own way: the headlight on the left mudguard went dark.

  They were jouncing across a rutted estate road on a plantation: dawn was not far off, and Torrance could see the rubber trees whipping past on either side, silhouetted against a dingy blue sky. Mitsumoto’s car still pressed close behind them. Rossi fired another burst at it, and then his Thompson fell silent.

  ‘Have you got any more ammo?’

  Torrance shook his head grimly, and turned off the estate road, bombing along one of the lanes between the rigidly arrayed trees, the trunks flashing past only inches away on both sides of them. Still Mitsumoto and his driver followed a parallel lane in what Torrance could now see was the Kurogane 95.

  ‘If you’re trying to lose them on rough terrain, you’re wasting your time,’ said Rossi. ‘I read somewhere those Jap scout cars have four-wheel drive.’

  ‘Cobblers!’ said Torrance. ‘Four-wheel drive’s impossible. How could they steer?’

  ‘The Japs’ve found a way.’

  ‘Sneaky bastards!’

  Emerging from the trees, the Riley hit a low dyke and bounced a couple of feet into the air before landing heavily on another estate road running along the bank of a flooded river. It lurched heavily on its suspension springs. Torrance wrestled with the gearstick, gunning the engine. The rear wheels spun, spraying mud into the dawn, before the treads finally caught and they shot off along the track, the single remaining headlight showing Torrance the way. Behind them, the Kurogane leaped effortlessly over the dyke, landing on the track without so much as pausing to catch its breath. In a matter of moments, it had caught up with the Riley, ramming it with the bumper. Torrance’s head was whipped back as the Riley lurched forward under the violent shock of the impact. Again the Kurogane rammed them from behind. Torrance struggled to regain control as the Riley’s wheels slithered in the mud. The Kurogane was creeping up alongside them on the inside: evidently the driver meant to side-swipe them and force them into the river.

  ‘No fucker beats me on the dodgems!’ As the Kurogane swerved towards the Riley’s side, Torrance slammed on the brakes. The Riley fell back, and the Kurogane was swerving towards the river. The driver managed to swing back just in time, but then Torrance slammed the Riley’s bumper into its rear end. It skidded, broadside on. Merciless, Torrance shoved his foot down, smashing into the Kurogane’s bonnet. Locked together, the two cars spun around one another, tyres slithering in the mud, spraying curtains of filthy water through the sheeting rain. They careered into a fallen tree trunk. The Riley was flipped on to its roof and Torrance landed head-first on the ceiling.

  In the back of the car, Rossi and the unconscious Sheridan had also fallen on to the ceiling, but Torrance could do nothing for them if Mitsumoto and his driver had survived the collision to riddle the Riley with bullet holes. The crash had shattered what was left of the windscreen. Squirming through the mud and broken glass, Torrance dragged himself out through the window and rose unsteadily to his feet. He leaned against the overturned Riley, grateful for the refreshing sting of the torrential rain.

  The Kurogane had come to rest nearby. The driver climbed out, a Thompson in his hands, levelling it at Torrance. Rossi came out of nowhere, catching the driver around the waist in a rugby tackle. The two of them went down, rolling over and over in the mud. Torrance was about to go to help Rossi when he saw Mitsumoto get out of the door on the other side of the Kurogane. Striding towards Torrance, he drew his sword from its scabbard. Gripping it two-handed, he swept the curved blade high above his head. Screaming wildly, he tried to swing it down at Torrance’s head. I’ll give you something to scream about, thought Torrance. He stepped in quickly, bringing his own hands up to catch Mitsumoto’s wrists, arresting the sword’s descent. The two of them struggled against one another, feet slipping in the mud, the sword raised aloft above them both.

  ‘Think fast, Mr Moto!’ Torrance moved in closer still, brought his forehead down sharply against the bridge of Mitsumoto’s nose. Blood gushed from the Japanese’s nostrils. Torrance brought his knee up into Mitsumoto’s crotch. He doubled over, and Torrance prised the sword from his grip with ease.

  A burst of tommy-gun fire off to Torrance’s left made him glance round. He saw that Rossi and the driver had broken apart, but it was Rossi who had the Thompson now; the rain was hissing where it hit the smoking barrel, and the driver had crumpled to the ground.

  Mitsumoto had recovered enough to see Rossi with the Thompson. He raised his hands high above his head. ‘I surrender!’

  Rossi glanced at Torrance, his eyebrows raised questioningly. Torrance just nodded wearily.

  ‘We don’t accept your surrender.’ Rossi squeezed the trigger. Mitsumoto jerked about, his limbs flailing, then he folded up like a marionette with the strings cut and sprawled in the mud.

  Torrance reversed his grip on the sword and plunged the blade down into Mitsumoto’s chest, impaling him, pinning him to the earth. Going through Mitsumoto’s pockets, he found a calfskin wallet and gold-plated cigarette case and matching lighter. The wallet contained sixty yen which went into Torrance’s sock, the rest went into his pockets.

  ‘Looting?’ Rossi asked as he dragged Sheridan out of the overturned Riley.

  ‘Trust me, Lefty, it’s all in a good cause.’ Torrance ran across to help Rossi with the unconscious Sheridan. ‘Is she still alive?’

  ‘Barely.’

  A machine gun chattered in the dawn, spitting tracer out of the undergrowth. Torrance and Rossi carried Sheridan across to the fallen tree trunk, crouching behind it.

  Another burst of fire punched holes through the Riley’s coachwork; a couple of bullets must have penetrated the petrol tank, for a moment later a fireball seemed to engulf the car.

  ‘No!’ screamed Torrance. Heedless of the danger of the machine gun, he lunged towards the burning Riley, but the searing heat drove him back. Rossi grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down next to Sheridan. ‘What are you doing? We’ve already got the doctor out!’

  �
��The geological survey!’ Torrance gazed forlornly at the flaming Riley. ‘It was in the glove compartment!’

  The machine gun fired another burst. The gunner was shooting blind now, perhaps dazzled by the flames.

  ‘That was a Bren,’ said Rossi.

  ‘Yeah.’ Torrance was thinking it was not unknown for Japanese soldiers to use Bren guns in preference to their own, less reliable woodpeckers. ‘Who’s that shooting?’ he roared at the top of his lungs.

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out!’ a voice with a Geordie accent called back.

  ‘Are you English?’ called Rossi.

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘So are we!’ shouted Torrance. ‘Well, I am. Lefty’s a Jock.’

  ‘Howay, lads! That’s never Lefty Rossi?’

  ‘Yeah. Who’s that?’

  ‘Blanco White.’

  ‘Blanco White from D Company? That scored the winning goal in our match against the Gordon Highlanders last summer?’

  Torrance was far from being the only Sassenach in the battalion: shortly after Dunkirk, the War Office, for reasons it had not seen fit to divulge, had transferred a couple of hundred Jocks into the Durham Light Infantry, and an equal number of Geordies into the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. Private David ‘Blanco’ White was one of these transfers.

  ‘Why aye, man! Who’s that?’

  ‘Slugger Torrance! Hold your fire, Blanco! We’re coming in!’

  * * *

  Sheridan had regained consciousness by the time Captain Bartlett – the Argylls’ medical officer – had bound up her wound and she was being loaded into the back of an army ambulance. ‘Charlie!’ she called.