by Hall, Ian
“Well then, I’ll be glad to do whatever I can.”
With the ice broken, Bert introduced Patterson to the other crewmembers as they shuffled out towards the flight-line. By now there was a glimmer in the eastern sky, and as the bulk of ‘S for Sugar’ loomed out of the gloom, dripping with overnight condensation, Jock felt a tremor of excitement as they approached. He had never been as close before to a working aircraft, and the machine’s presence as it loomed over him – its latent power – impressed itself immediately on him.
The cargo had been loaded overnight by the army dispatch team which formed an integral part of the squadron, leaving the crew little to do but check it for security and make minor adjustments. Attaching himself to Bert and Freddie, who were going through the stocks of medical equipment and checking the seating and stretchers ready for the return trip, he followed them through in their work. Satisfied, they turned their attention to the outbound load.
“Rice,” observed Bert. “See how the some of the sacks appear to shimmer slightly? There – that one there especially. What you’re seeing is the little weevils in the grain.”
The airman screwed up his nose in distaste.
“That’s not good. And why take rice anyway? Don’t they grow it in Java?”
“I think they may do. But what with the occupation and all the internment for three years, agriculture suffered and there’s apparently still a shortage. And of course the garrisons can’t always get local rations, especially with all the hostiles around. So rice is one of the many commodities we resupply.”
“Weevils and all.”
“Weevils and all,” agreed Bert. “Not nice, but food’s food, and as you’ve just seen at breakfast people are used to being grateful for whatever they can get. Events like Bekasi seem to put it all into perspective, don’t you think?”
Patterson nodded, thoughtfully.
“Look at that, there.” Freddie was poking about around the edge of the aircraft flooring, and Jock followed his pointing finger to where a few green shoots were insinuating their way up through the joints between the metal floor panels. “Genuine rice plants, growing from grains which have dropped through the cracks on previous runs. Just like Kew Gardens, this kite!”
Jock looked doubtful, not sure whether the two crewmen were pulling his leg.
“No seriously,” Freddie reassured him. “It is. Spillage from broken sacks. In the humidity it germinates and grows under the floor. Sometimes we almost need a lawn mower to run up and down the aircraft! And god knows what the roots do to all the complicated bits hidden under the floor.”
“Yes, rice is a troublesome cargo,” continued Bert. “But not as horrible as some others. It’s the 40-gallon drums of petrol I hate. They’re a devil to shift and the old Dak smells like a refinery. And of course you can’t have a smoke with them on board.”
“Thousands of different cargoes – even animals.” Freddie shuddered. “No wonder the old crate’s so dirty and smelly most of the time, no matter what we do to keep it clean for the poor devils we’ll be evacuating.”
The conversation continued as they completed their pre-flight work and got the engines going. Soon they were in the cruise at 5,000 feet, the rays of the rising sun searching out the dark corners of the hold as unoccupied crewmembers made themselves comfortable amongst the sacks of cargo, resting prior to the next burst of activity.
And that came soon enough. On the ground at Semarang the outbound load was swiftly shifted by a gang of Japanese soldiers and the cabin given a cursory sweep out before being reconfigured. Bert’s first consignment homebound was to comprise ten stretcher cases, and Jock marvelled as he watched the big man turn into a ministering angel as his patients were manoeuvred into position.
“I need you to lend a hand, here,” called Bert. “See, that strap there; pass it over so I can secure this stretcher a bit better.”
Patterson jumped to the task, the first of many during a day in which he found himself more and more a part of the crew as time went on.
“Jock, settle that man with an extra pillow, there’s a good chap.”
“Jock, just sit beside that lady for a while and watch her, would you please? I’m a little worried about her pulse. We don’t want to lose her.”
“Jock, I hate to ask you this but my hands are full just now. That chap’s thrown up, so would you mind doing what you can to clean him up and make him comfortable? There’s water and cloths at the back.”
Patterson settled himself into the work, surprising himself with how absorbing he found it. And before he knew it they were back at Kemajoran, seeing their patients safely into the hands of the medical orderlies who would take them onwards to the base hospital. Then there was barely time to rearrange the cabin for more cargo before the loaders were at the door.
The outbound cargo this time was ammunition for the garrison. Small boxes, incredibly heavy, making the soldiers on the loading team sweat and grunt as they heaved them in and secured them on the cabin floor. Ammunition; not an extraordinary cargo in itself but sometimes put aboard in extraordinary quantities. For inexperienced loaders had, occasionally, mistaken a small volume of ammunition for a small load and added some more for luck. What they hadn’t appreciated was the weight and density of the stuff, and Daks had been known in the past to stagger airborne with a mistaken quantity of nearly twice their design weight of payload. The old workhorses had just about made it, wallowing into the air, but the crews knew that they wouldn’t have stood a chance in that condition if an engine had failed. So this time the skipper made a careful check of the quantity and assured himself that the huge weight was distributed evenly about the aircraft’s centre of gravity.
Semarang again, and now for a consignment of walk-on internees. Jock, Bert, Dusty and Freddie helped them up the rickety aircraft steps and settled them as comfortably as possible into the canvas seating that was tacked to the side walls of the fuselage. Airborne once more, and again Jock found himself impressed by Bert’s tenderness with his frightened charges, with the expert way he ministered to their needs. Impressed, yes – and humbled.
And so it continued throughout the long day. Rice outbound again; patients inbound. Tinned food outbound; internees inbound. At odd intervals during their ground stops the crew would snatch a couple of minutes together in the shade under the wing, swigging mugs of hot sweet tea and drawing on cigarettes. And the highlight of the day had come and gone, the moment when Freddie had ceremoniously broken open their box of flight rations. This was intended to last them through the shift, and there was a scrabble for the favourite tins of fruit and cigarettes. And not least for the toilet paper which, Jock discovered, was a highly prized commodity amongst the aircrew.
“Anyone would think you chaps hadn’t seen paper for years,” exclaimed the airman, watching with amazement as, one by one, the crewmembers disappeared to the back of the cabin to spend a few minutes on the smelly old chemical contraption that passed as the Dakota’s toilet.
“You’d be surprised just how much this meagre ration of paper means to us,” commented Dusty. Helps to bring a little civilisation to our otherwise animal-like days. Such are the small pleasures of our sorry lives!”
Before he could believe it they were on the last trip of the day. As the sun sank in the western sky, Patterson found himself wondering again at the skeletal torsos he was seeing before him. The gaunt faces, some almost pathetically grateful for the care the airmen were dispensing. Some staring apparently sightlessly into the distance, numbed with the shock of the whole experience. Or perhaps unable to take in the reality of the past three years’ horror now being almost over. Although, realised Jock in one of the few moments he had time to catch his thoughts and reflect, the Dakota evacuation flight would be far from the last episode of the personal nightmare for many of these people.
Just when would they be reunited with friends and family they’d been separated from for so long? Some of them, he knew, would have to face the reality of what the
y’d most probably long suspected, that loved ones had been killed or had died in the camps. And what about the homes they’d been forced to leave, the land they had owned? The airman had gleaned a little of this from brief conversations he had had in quieter moments with Freddie. Nelli had, after her release, had a chance to go back and see her old family house. But she’d returned distraught at what she’d found. The building had been used for the past three years by occupying forces, and the ruin and dereliction she’d found had left a vividly unpleasant impression on the young woman. The cultivated land around the house had also been neglected, much of it reverting to scrubby jungle, and would take years to regain its former fertility.
Would today’s internees make full recoveries from their injuries and illnesses, or would some of them be left forever invalids – physically or mentally scarred? Would they be likely to be able to resume their earlier lives in Java in the new political and demographic circumstances that were evolving? He thought on balance that this was unlikely to be possible for most, which would then leave them with an awkward dilemma with respect to their future: to return to their fatherlands – to Holland, to Malaya or to Australia? Countries in which they hadn’t resided for many years, perhaps ever? Countries, some distant, in which there might not be any immediate work or homes for them, or many contacts to help them?
And above all the fear of the unknown. So, relieved as passengers undoubtedly were at being released, he could well understand why overwhelming uncertainty about their futures was inhibiting their joy.
Now, when the crew had finally put the aircraft to bed for the night, handing it over to the technicians for rectification of any small defects that had arisen during the day and to the air dispatchers for preparation of the next morning’s cargo, they headed back for the domestic area. One or two of them went straight to bed in their tents, but most went first over to the tented kitchen to pick up a plate of tinned evening meal. Unidentifiable main course, with some dehydrated potato and vegetable. No wonder the cooks stopped short of bestowing any fancy name on the dish; it was simply ‘meat and veg’.
The airmen were exhausted, and what little talk there was at the table as they wiped their plates clean of gravy with slices of bread and margarine was of the next morning’s task. No signs there, Aircraftman Patterson noted in passing, of discontent with their lot. Despite the unrelenting grind of the mission, he could see how the nature of their work was keeping them going. Tomorrow there would be more of the same, and they would simply get on with it.
Tomorrow for him would mean another shift in the office with his nose in those dry old ledgers. But he knew now that he wanted to be back with the crew before too long. Whether or not they’d been told about his background and the reason for his being with them for the day, they’d certainly not given him the impression that they were aware of any agenda. They’d been friendly and appreciative of his efforts, and he’d learned that they were always grateful for an extra hand. Indeed he knew that the skipper had agreed with Bert that Patterson had come up trumps and would be welcome again. Now, then, it would be for him to get his NCO’s agreement for him to have the odd day out of the office. Or, should that approach fail, for him simply to volunteer to fly on his days off.
Whichever way, he knew he’d be back. Jock Patterson had found in himself a strand of humanity he didn’t know he’d possessed. Although he’d been somewhat prepared for the nature of the work, he’d found coming face to face with those distressed people a deeply humbling experience. And now, with Bert’s big arm around his shoulder as the medic thanked him for his day’s efforts, he felt the memories of his Drigh Road episode fading away to nothing.
CHAPTER 23
A week later, with a number of his plans for improved recreational opportunities and earlier repatriation coming to fruition, Wing Commander Macnamara was snatching a rare break half way through his day. He had taken a canvas chair out onto the grass in front of his tent and was sitting with a cup of tea, chewing the fat with his adjutant.
They were reflecting, first of all, on the apparent success of their handling of the potential mutiny situation, which to all appearances seemed to have been stillborn. On the day following Patterson’s flight, Bert Edwards had come to the CO and reported the outcome.
“He seemed genuinely affected by what he saw, sir, and threw himself heart and soul into helping me care for the passengers. Whatever it was that might have been bothering him didn’t seem to hinder his work, and I’d be glad to have him along again.”
Macnamara hadn’t told Ken or Bert the full background to the story, merely that he’d like to give an administrator with a lack of appreciation of the big picture the chance to spend a day at the sharp end. He’d long ago decided as a matter of policy to keep any talk of insurrection to within as small a circle as possible, and the outcome appeared to have justified his approach. He’d ask Sergeant Wood to continue to keep his ear to the ground for possible trouble but, as he told his companion, he thought it unlikely that there would be any more talk of mutiny.
“With any luck, adj, he’ll be a changed man.” And he drew deeply on his pipe, mentally consigning the episode to the ‘case closed’ drawer.
Now, as the two men continued their review of the state of play, a familiar sound came across the sultry air as a Dakota idled around the finals turn and lined up for the runway.
“The Singapore schedule, I think,” commented Macnamara. This was a regular run, serving the purposes of resupply, ferrying personnel who were leaving or joining the Kemajoran wing, and exchanging aircraft which needed to go to the main base for major servicing. The Dak’s two Twin Wasp engines were at low power, and they watched as the pilot flared slightly, cut the throttles to idle, and ran the aircraft’s main wheels onto the runway. The tail dropped as the speed came off and the aircraft picked its way towards its parking spot, carefully edging around the usual jumble of equipment and cargo waiting to be shipped. As it turned out of the sun’s glare, the two men simultaneously stood up at the sight that suddenly became apparent.
“Good grief, just look at that,” exclaimed Macnamara.
The newly refurbished aircraft was proudly sporting a glistening set of peacetime RAF red white and blue roundels.
“Well that’s clinched it,” agreed the adj. “The war in the Far East is at last officially over. Presumably decreed by the staffs on high. Or,” he amended, reconsidering, “perhaps by the boys in the paint shop.”
“Yes, well … I wonder whether they’ve read any of our latest combat reports,” said the wing commander. “But never mind that. As we were just discussing, things are definitely quietening down around this end of the island at least. So peacetime RAF roundels somehow seem to be a step in the right direction. I never thought we’d see them back again!”
“Marvellous. Bloody marvellous,” echoed the adj. “Must be straight out of the maintenance unit. It’s not only had a servicing but a repaint as well. I don’t think we’ve had one looking so smart since we’ve been here.” He glanced along the sorry-looking line of war-weary Dakotas, with their faded finish and grubby blue and white markings.
They walked across to the dispersal as the newcomer’s door opened, climbed the steps and peered inside.
“All spick and span, sir!” It was Freddie. “You could eat your dinner off the floor!”
The wing commander continued his patrol around, marvelling at the shiny surfaces. He sniffed. He inhaled deeply, a smile extending over his features.
“The smell of fresh paint! Something, it seems, I recall only from my childhood. Well, well, well!”
Ken clambered back from the flight deck. “What do you think of this, sir? Terrific, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely. ‘Sugar’ is in dock for a few days, isn’t she? You can take this one on the Solo run tomorrow. Those poor internees might appreciate something in slightly better condition than the cattle trucks we usually pick them up in.”
Solo was one of the smaller up-country strips
, and one which Ken had visited once before. “Just right.”
“How was Singapore?”
The two men disembarked together, exchanging small talk as they headed for the domestic site.
****
Later that day, the squadron adjutant intercepted Binns as he was heading for the medical tent.
“Dusty, have you got a minute?” The adj’s head was poking out of the tent which served as the administrative office.
“Sure thing.” Dusty was on his way to see Bert about a nasty-looking boil that had erupted on his neck. But that could wait for now, and he stepped into the tent.
“This one’s slightly difficult Dusty, but I think you might be able to help us out.” The adj paused, and Dusty nodded him onwards. He continued: “We’ve had a letter from John Brimstone’s father.”
Corporal Brimstone had been a member of the Bekasi crew, a medical orderly whom Dusty had known well. In fact the adj was aware that the two of them had been bridge partners over the months preceding the tragedy, meeting regularly in various bashas for what was a very popular jungle pastime. As far as the adj knew, the well-adjusted Dusty had taken the news of his friend’s tragic end as well as anybody could have been expected to have done, and he had little hesitation in asking the nav to perform a related duty.
“Go on,” said Dusty.
“I’ll show you the letter in due course. But the gist of it is that John’s father is upset that none of his son’s friends has been in contact since the event. Understandable in the circumstances, I suppose. But on the other hand the mail’s unreliable, and for all I know there may already be letters on the way. We as a squadron have done our official bits, of course. Mac has written, and I happen to know he pens an extremely good letter. It’s a sad fact of life that the more practice one has at writing with that sort of news, the better one gets at it.”
“I see what you mean. I’m not sure I know anybody here who would have written off his own bat. Anyone, I mean, who would have known John’s parents, which would naturally lead to a letter.”