“Paul. What is it?” Daphne called out.
He went back to the bedroom. “The hospital rang, they’ve got young Rob there.”
“Robbie.” It was too dark for him to see her face, but fear made her voice shrill.
“They want you.” He switched on the bedside lamp.
“Is he seriously hurt? Of course he is, otherwise why send for me?”
“Don’t get upset, he’ll be all right. Probably only rang because you work there.” He started dressing. “I’ll drive you over.”
What a nightmare journey. He drove as fast as he could on a road full of bomb craters and debris. Even now they could hear the low whine of aircraft and the distant sounds of artillery.
As he helped Daphne into the hospital, he was shocked to see soldiers, still bloodied and dirty, being off-loaded from trucks in the compound.
Rob lay in the corner bed of a long ward, a screen setting him apart from the other patients. “Sorry, we didn’t have a spare room to give him,” the orderly apologized. “We’ve been inundated with casualties. There’s been bitter fighting in Malaya, and we’re getting wounded direct now.”
“It’s all right, thanks, Phil. May I see him?”
“Yes.”
As soon as they stepped inside the screen Daphne rushed over to the bed. Paul had no medical training, but somehow he knew, by gazing into Rob’s face, that he was mortally wounded. A film of perspiration covered his shoulders and his chest where it wasn’t bandaged.
“Daffy.” His voice sounded the same, yet somehow different. The aura of death felt so strong, Paul shivered.
“I’m here, Robbie, so is Paul.”
“Gordon’s dead. We were together. I didn’t let my mates down.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she soothed.
“Tell Mum I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“You’ll be seeing her yourself soon.”
“Will I?”
“Of course.” Daphne’s voice was steady, and Paul marveled at the quiet strength of her. Being a nurse, she must know there was no hope for him. “You’re going to be an uncle in about seven months.”
“That’s good. It will give Mum something to look forward to. I’m badly wounded, aren’t I?”
“Yes, but you’ll get better,” she reassured.
“I can’t feel anything from my waist down.”
Paul watched Daphne’s face blanche. “I put my hand down but I couldn’t feel my legs.”
“Of course you wouldn’t, silly. They’ve given you an anesthetic. You won’t feel anything for ages.”
“It’s cold, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Rub my hands, Daffy. Like you did when we were kids on those frosty Wangaratta mornings. You were always able to warm me up.”
Paul left them for a moment so he might speak to the Ward Sister.
“How bad is he?”
She picked up a patient’s chart before answering. “He was machine gunned. Practically cut him in two, he hasn’t got long, I’m afraid.”
Nausea rose up in his throat and he swallowed it back. “Thanks, Sister.” He stumbled back the way he had come. The copper head was up close to the dark one now.
“Look after Mum for me. Dad’s an old soldier. He knows the score.”
“You’ll be seeing them yourself soon, Robbie.”
“No, I won’t.”
“You will. You will.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and he had to stand helplessly by, watching as her heart broke.
“I’m not frightened, Daffy. Always thought I would be. Strange, isn’t it. I’ll be meeting up with Gordon and the others sooner than I expected. Tell Mum not to be sad for too long. I’ve fought the good fight and kept the faith. Tell her that. Get the Padre for me now.” He spoke in a harsh whisper yet the words were so clear he might well have shouted them.
“I’ll go,” Paul volunteered.
The Chaplain was middle-aged. Paul didn’t even bother finding out what denomination he represented. “Hurry, Padre, there isn’t much time.”
“Sadly, there never is for these boys.”
Daphne sat on the bed holding Rob’s hand. If it was possible, he looked even worse because his eyes were closed.
“You wanted to see me, er, Robert.” Paul mouthed the name.
“Yes. I’ve nothing to confess, but read me something, the 23rd Psalm will do. It’s Mum’s favorite.”
Private R.T. Clarke did not die straight away. He slipped into unconsciousness and lay in that void between the faintest flicker of life and the absolute finality of death. Daphne sat with him all day until the rays of the setting sun, bore yet another young warrior away.
* * *
The bombing continued. Casualties mounted. Drains were blocked and sewers had burst, and there was no one left to fix them. The sky over Singapore was blackened with smoke from burning oil. The air was so full of oil smuts they rained down like black snow, covering everything in an oily black film.
The Malay Peninsular was all but over-run, and the troops could do little but stall the Japanese invaders. And those British guns, those mighty fifteen-inch naval guns embedded in concrete, were pointing uselessly out to sea. It was unthinkable. Singapore, the largest British base in the Far East, teetered on the brink of invasion.
On the 29th January, the government imposed a curfew from 9pm to 5am in an endeavor to stop looting. On the 30th January, they proclaimed martial law.
Paul heard of a plane leaving that afternoon, and he used every ounce of influence he could to get Daphne on it. She had been very quiet since Rob’s death, and her grief nearly broke his heart. She steadfastly refused to leave him and he had weakened and let her stay. Now that they were under martial law, she was going, even if he had to physically drag her on to the plane.
“You’ll be safe in Wangaratta. I’ll join you when I can.”
“I want to stay here with you. We can leave together.”
“For God’s sake, you have to think of our baby. Singapore won’t hold out for much longer, you could end up being trapped here. It will be survival of the fittest. We can’t take the risk.”
She finally agreed. She couldn’t endanger their baby, even if it meant separation from Paul.
Her lips were softly tremulous against his as he kissed her goodbye once more. He would have given up everything he owned if he could have prevented them from being torn apart.
They drove to the aerodrome where the plane waited, and Paul stood at the edge of the field watching as an Air Force sergeant escorted Daphne across a runway pitted with craters and pieces of twisted metal. She turned and waved, on reaching the aircraft. He lifted his hand, then wearily made his way back to his vehicle. He could not bear to watch her flying out of his life, probably forever.
He could have pulled strings and perhaps escaped from Singapore himself. Others were doing so, he knew. He was scared as hell, but couldn’t leave his men behind while he turned tail and ran, no matter how much he wanted to. They were risking their lives on lonely islands and hideaways, relaying vital information on enemy troop and shipping movements, and he had to collect and collate all the data. Sir Phillip thought he was here working as a bloody clerk. If things weren’t so serious it would be laughable.
* * *
It was not a large plane, Daphne realized, as the airman helped her up into it. Some of the seats had been pushed together to accommodate more people. It was crowded with women, some nursing children, and there was not one vacant seat. She glanced around with a feeling close to desperation while the sergeant read from his list.
“Mrs. Broderick.”
“Yes.” A pretty Eurasian girl raised her hand.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be off-loaded. Mrs. Ashfield has priority.”
“Just a moment,” Daphne said. “Why do I have priority, if she got here first?”
“She’s Eurasian, you’re English,” a middle-aged matron sniffed.
“I’m Australian. W
hat’s that got to do with it?”
“Preference must be given to Europeans.”
Daphne simply stared as the girl stood up. She could not be more than eighteen. She held a child of ten or so months in her arms and was obviously pregnant again.
“I’m used to this kind of discrimination. My father was an English officer, my husband is an English sergeant, but I’m of mixed blood.”
“I can’t take your seat. It isn’t fair.”
“Could you take my baby with you? I’ll give you my husband’s parent’s address in England. They’ll look after him.”
“Go back to your seat. I’d rather face the Japs than deprive you. It’s disgusting.”
“Mrs. Ashfield, we have to get this plane off the ground now. If you don’t get this flight, I doubt there’ll be anymore.”
“I’ll take my chances. Go without me.”
Daphne watched as the plane took off and started to gain height. Suddenly, it plummeted to the ground in a fireball. At the same moment, Japanese bombs landed on the aerodrome. Diving to the ground, she felt a sharp pain in her head, then nothing.
* * *
Paul, sitting in his jeep, watched horrified as the plane to which Daphne had been ushered burst into flames. He dived out of the jeep and started running along the road. His driver brought him to the ground with a flying tackle as several bombs lobbed right near them.
When he finally struggled to his feet, yelling at his driver to do the same, the man did not move. He dropped to his knees and saw that the soldier had been hit. Disregarding his own orders to get away from the bombing as quickly as they could, he lifted the wounded soldier on to his shoulders and staggered off.
* * *
Heat radiating from fires burning all around her brought Daphne back to consciousness. She pushed several wooden packing cases away before staggering to her feet. Bodies were strewn everywhere. There were gaping holes in the ground and twisted, smoldering wreckage. She had no idea how long she had lain there, but her head ached so badly she cradled it between her hands so it wouldn’t split open. I must find Paul. He’ll think I’ve gone down with the plane. God, it must have been fate that spared her. Those poor people, including the Eurasian girl and her baby, were all gone. There could not have been any survivors as the plane virtually disintegrated into a burning fireball in the sky. I can’t even cry. I’m devoid of tears. I shed them all for Robbie.
She stumbled along. It was imperative for her to find Paul quickly. There were a number of people helping with the injured, others tried to stop water from pouring out of burst mains, but they were all too busy to worry about her. Paul had mentioned he was working from the colonel’s office near the aerodrome, she remembered. She knew where that was.
Soldiers dashed around everywhere. The cries of trapped people echoed in her ears, but she took no notice as she stared in shock. The colonel’s office, the whole building, had been completely destroyed, leaving a huge crater surrounded by smoldering rubble. No man could have got out of there alive.
She started running, she knew not where. Something forced her legs into motion, and like a panic-stricken animal she kept on going, until finally she had to slow to a walk or she would have collapsed. Soldiers patrolled some of the bomb-ravished shops to keep looters at bay, and the sickening stench of burning flesh stuck to her nostrils, but she kept trudging along, mile after tortuous mile. If she concentrated on walking she didn’t have to think of anything else.
The landscape wouldn’t stop seesawing. Her legs were trembling so much she had to rest. Her head ached and, like tiny darts, bright pinpricks of light stabbed her eyes. Her clothes were soaked with perspiration. She staggered into the nearest intact building and slumped against the wall. Then came a sudden God-almighty roar and the building shook.
When she finally opened her eyes, she tried to move, but something heavy pressed down on her legs. Closing her eyes for a few moments, she gingerly opened them again. Her surroundings had stopped swaying now. Through a haze of smoke and dust, she found herself in a bombed out building with rubble covering her from the thighs down.
Her head throbbed. Gingerly she touched her forehead and felt the warm stickiness of blood. How long had she been buried here? She could just about kill for a drink of water.
Horror returned with a vengeance. Paul was gone. If she closed her eyes and let herself drift, she would be re-united with him in death, and with Robbie also. No more sadness, no more struggling for survival on her own. It would be so easy. She gave into the temptation to be free of pain and closed her eyes.
“Help. Is anyone there?” The desperate plea permeated her fogged brain.
“I’m over here. Where are you?” she answered instinctively.
“I’m jammed up against the back wall. There’s shrapnel pinning me by the arm.”
She struggled to sit up then started pulling the rubble off her legs, mainly chunks of plaster, so it did not take long to claw her way out. She could only stand up because the building’s roof had been blown off.
“Call out again so I can find you.” She coughed and choked from dust, and her eyes burned and stung from the smoke. The humidity was so thick it was like forcing her way through a wet blanket.
A young man lay slumped against the furthermost side of the building, his arm impaled on a piece of steel pipe sticking out from the wall.
“I’m Daphne Ashfield,” she introduced herself as she checked him for other injuries.
“Marty Bennett, Merchant Navy.”
“Except for your arm you seem fine. Do you hurt anywhere else?” What a stupid question; he must be in agony.
“No, it’s only my arm.”
“What happened?”
“I was on my way back to the ship when I heard the Zero’s overhead. Next thing I knew I was here, trapped like a rat in a trap. Can you get me out? My ship’s in dock at KeppelHarbor?”
“I don’t know.” She gnawed her lip. “If I had a hacksaw I could cut through the pipe and get you to the hospital where I’m a nurse.”
“Why don’t you just pull it out?”
“No, we’d better not.” Even if she could pull it out, he might bleed to death. It was impossible to know how much internal damage had been done to the arm.
“Looks like I’ve been shot by a piece of plumbing, beautiful,” he joked.
“Yes.” She forced a little chuckle. “A bathroom fitting I should think.”
This young sailor, impaled on a piece of iron in a bombed-out building, obviously in pain, joked and flirted with her, while army wives at the Happy Hour, bitched about being deprived of their imported luxuries. Any wonder she despised them.
“I’ll have to get you back to the ship, pipe and all. It’s attached to a wooden wall, we’ll smash it away somehow.”
She felt sick. Her head throbbed, every bone in her body ached, and Paul was dead, but she banged away with a brick with all the strength she could muster. Marty wanted to help, but he couldn’t twist around without tearing his arm.
“I’ll do it. You rest.”
“Are you wounded?” he asked suddenly.
“Just a scratch on the forehead I think.”
His pale cheeks reddened beneath the grime caked to his face. “I noticed when you stood up, there’s blood running down your legs.”
She glanced down then wished she hadn’t. The cramping stomach pains, the ache in her back, she hadn’t realized it before, but she was losing Paul’s baby.
“I think I’m having a miscarriage.” Tears poured down her cheeks, but she kept on pounding the wall. God, why are you doing this to me? She wanted to scream at the injustice of it all.
“Maybe if you rested, it might stop,” Marty suggested.
“It’s too late,” she cried brokenly. “This is the worst day of my life. My husband has been killed and I’ve lost our baby. Don’t tell me there are worse things than dying, because I won’t believe you.”
She took her anguish out on the wall, bashing and ba
nging until the wood splintered and she could pull the pipe free. She helped Marty stand up, and with a chunk of wall still attached to the pipe, he wrapped his good arm around her neck and they staggered outside.
By the position of the sun, she guessed it was late afternoon.
“We’ve got to get to the ship. It’s sailing at dusk,” he rasped. His face looked ashen beneath the grime that, mingled with perspiration, turned to mud.
“I’ll help you get there, don’t worry. There’s a short cut we can take,” she panted. “If it’s not blocked off.”
Daphne felt so sick and weak she didn’t care whether she lived or died. She couldn’t let this brave young sailor miss his ship, though. He would never be able to make it back on his own.
They eventually came to the wharf area and she was shocked. Hundreds of civilians, women and children as well as military personnel jostled each other, pleading to be evacuated. There were only a small number of ships and harassed government officials tried to check travel documents amidst the chaos.
“Look at them, bloody officialdom gone mad,” he said as they pushed their way forward.
“Marty.”
“Hey, Steve,” he yelled at a sailor who frantically tried to pull up the gangplank on a rusty old steamer. “Give us a hand will you?”
“You’ll never make it through the crowd,” Steve called back, waving and gesticulating with his hands.
“Can you swim?” Marty asked.
“Yes.”
“There’s an oil landing bay up a bit from the main wharf, we’ll have to jump into the water and swim. Steve will launch a boat on the blind side of the ship, so we aren’t seen. There would be a bloody riot otherwise.”
She didn’t argue she was beyond it. She hadn’t expected to escape from Singapore, only to help Marty. Go with the flow she told herself, it’s easier that way. Helping her probably gave him the strength to rise above the pain and exhaustion he must be suffering.
They held hands and jumped into the warm, oil streaked water. Marty rolled on to his side and dog paddled with his good arm, while she swam. They had gone less than a hundred yards when a boat pulled up and they were dragged on board.
A Mortal Sin Page 16