by Hall, Ian
“Two sorts of Malay, in fact. Low Malay is the common language in Java which we use to speak to the locals. Then there is High Malay, the language of government administration. Or at least was. I don’t know what direction things will go in now.”
“So how did you communicate with the Japanese in the camp?”
“‘Lots of them spoke some Malay, so that was the usual means. Supplemented by a little English and lots of sign language. We managed. And of course we picked up a bit of Jap in the three years, although of course we tended not to advertise that. It was useful at times to have the ability to misunderstand their orders!”
“Phew.” Dusty whistled, full of admiration for the girl’s abilities.
“Amazing.” It was Freddie. “Four languages. I’ve only got one.”
“Two, surely,” interjected Bernie. “English language and bad language.”
“What do you mean?” said Nelli, puzzled.
“It’s a sort of joke.”
“Ah, the famous English sense of humour. I’ll certainly have to work on that to understand it.”
Dusty nudged Bernie, nodding in Nelli’s direction. “Methinks he’s got a sparky one there, old boy!”
They entered the club and headed for the bar. As they passed a door opening onto an office, Nelli’s attention was caught by a poster pinned to a notice board. She stopped and turned.
“What’s up, Nelli?” asked Freddie.
“Can I just look in there? Something caught my eye.”
He followed her into the empty office, to where she had been drawn to a poster on the wall – which unmistakably bore her image. Her lips moved as she read the wording.
Freddie hastened to explain. “Well the security people don’t like to take any chances. There have been collaborators, you know. Don’t worry; it’s just a routine thing.”
“Just routine?” Her face was white and her eyes were blazing. “Just routine? It’s as though I’m a criminal. It looks like a ‘wanted’ poster.”
“It’s nothing personal. Just an administrative formality. It’s what they do for all foreign workers.”
“Foreign workers? Who are the foreigners here?” She was incandescent. “How would you like it if you walked into my community club and saw a poster of you on the wall? Asking whether anybody knew anything bad about you?”
“Well I’ve nothing to hide,” stammered Freddie. “I’m British.”
Immediately the words were out he knew he’d said the wrong thing. He reached out his hand and put it reassuringly on her arm. She withdrew it sharply, taking a step backwards away from him.
“You’re British?” She was in a towering rage now, and the whole company could hear her. She slapped his hand away from her. “You’re British? You arrogant people. You think the whole world should be grateful to you for liberating it. You haven’t got the first understanding of how things are here.”
She ripped the picture off the wall and screwed it into a tight ball. It went straight into a waste bin. Immediately having second thoughts, she picked up the bin and heaved its entire contents across the room at Freddie.
And leaving a tangle of litter on the floor, she barged past him and stormed out of the club.
“I never want to see you again.” The words, cast over her shoulder, echoed from the surrounding trees as she continued her diatribe.
He started after her, but realised before reaching the front door that now was not the time to try to rebuild the situation. He returned, desperately trying to believe and hope that her anger would subside after a while. But for now she was away.
His crew tried to console the distraught WOp as they sipped their beers.
“I don’t understand the problem with the notice,” observed Bernie. “It’s just like having your wedding banns published. But that’s women for you. Let her stew. In due course she’ll see reason and the storm will blow over.”
Freddie groaned in anguish.
“Really, Bernie,” came in Ken. “I don’t think that was altogether helpful.”
Ever the voice of moderation, Dusty put in his two pennyworth. “I think she’s got a point. After all she’s been through, it must have been a bit galling to see her image up there on the wall like a criminal’s.”
“Yes,” agreed Ken. “The trouble is, even though we’ve seen so much since we’ve been here on this mission, we’re probably no closer to understanding the depth of feeling of all the factions involved. I’m sure you’re right, Bernie, she will come round. But you’ll have to realise, Freddie, that there are some very raw nerves not far below the surface.”
And they supped their pints, conscious that the Bekasi episode had been only one vent on the bubbling volcano that was Indonesia – past, present and future.
****
The following morning found the crew airborne again. The task was diminishing and the atmosphere more relaxed, but there was still the weather to contend with. Today their aircraft was light, and they’d opted to go over the top of the thundery build-ups rather than round them. Ken cursed as he struggled to light his pipe in the cruise.
“Bloody match. Just won’t strike. Must be damp.” He threw it away on the floor and tried another.
“Skipper, had you considered that we’re at 16,000 feet?” Dusty seemed to have the answer as usual. “Oxygen you know. Or rather, lack of oxygen. In fact hadn’t you noticed you’re feeling a bit below par?”
“Suppose so,” said Ken. “One way or another the weather always causes trouble.”
By rights the crew ought to have been using additional oxygen at that altitude, for the air was too thin for them to function at 100 per cent efficiency. But the aircraft wasn’t equipped, and as they seldom spent very long at those sorts of levels they tended not to worry too much.
“All right boys, let’s drift down a bit. I really fancy a smoke. There’s a way between those two cunims just to the right, Bernie.”
They could see lighter sky at the far end of the gap, and as the co-pilot gently lost height down the valley between the build-ups, there came a sound of satisfaction as Ken finally got his pipe under way. It was a lovely afternoon for flying and they relaxed, enjoying the scenery. A companionable lull in conversation was broken by Freddie.
“Do you know, I had the oddest dream last night?”
Mumbles indicated a lack of interest, but he pressed on anyway. “Yes, I dreamed that I was on guard picket and was posted to look after the minefield on the edge of the camp. I was patrolling carefully in the safe area when I snagged a tripwire and pitched forward.”
“I suppose that must have been that, then. You were blown up,” said Ken. “Perhaps we can get back to our work now.”
“No, there’s more,” persisted Freddie, refusing to be put off. “What I was expecting before the mine went off was that the whole of my life would flash before my eyes. But you know what? There was nothing. Now isn’t that strange?”
“Maybe indicates what a sad and limited life you’ve had,” said Bernie. “Perhaps it did flash by you but there was so little of it that you missed it.”
“Now hang on, that’s not fair. But no offence taken.”
“I reckon the tripping had to do with the way Nelli snared you.” Dusty was all for finding the deeper meaning.
“No it didn’t, so there.” Freddie had the answer. “Anyway, I woke up and discovered that I’d actually got out of my own tent to go for a pee, and had tripped over a guy rope.”
“Well there you are then,” concluded Dusty. “No real danger of death, so no life flashing before your eyes.”
“I dunno though,” said Freddie, unconvinced. “Extraordinary things, dreams, don’t you think?”
“Stranger than fiction,” interjected Ken. “But we’re nearly there, WOp, so would you mind very much coming back to reality and putting those alleged wireless skills of yours to work?”
“Right away, skip.” As Freddie tuned the radio set they could still hear him chuntering away about his disappoin
tment over not seeing his life flash before him. The thought occurred to more than one of them that it would be more to the point if they could foresee a happy ending to his tricky girl situation.
****
But they needn’t have worried, and the station chapel soon found Kemajoran’s chaplain taking his prayer book off the shelf and riffling through it, looking for the marriage service. Failing to find it immediately he resorted to the index. There it was, and he turned to the appropriate section. Unlike the somewhat dog-eared pages which comprised most of the well-used book, this part was in mint condition. He smiled, slightly sadly, reflecting that there hadn’t been much call for wedding vows in his parish over the past few years.
Having found the page he spent a pleasant few minutes re-familiarising himself with the grand old words. He was going to enjoy this; a marriage would make a pleasant change from funerals.
The young couple had been to see him earlier in the day and they’d fixed the date for the coming Saturday. If the chaplain had been aware of the row that had raged barely twenty-four hours earlier, he’d said nothing. There had been no evidence of it in the pair’s demeanor or in the two happy faces before him. In any case, even if he had detected a slight atmosphere between them he wouldn’t have worried unduly. As far as he could recall, there were few couples who didn’t have a spat or two at this stage of the game – and as a rule any bad atmosphere would evaporate almost as soon as it had arisen.
And if he thought the proposed date for the wedding seemed overly soon, he didn’t comment on that either. He was well aware that, during the past six years, the exigencies of wartime had sometimes pressed couples into marriage far more quickly than the traditional timescales. And he knew that, in this couple’s case, two things were driving the date.
First, that Nelli’s father had finally been liberated from his internment camp and was now in Batavia. And secondly, that the bride-to-be had been offered a passage to Britain in a ship leaving in only a fortnight. The couple had explained to him their thinking.
The WOp would have given anything for the chance to travel home with his new wife, even though troopships were subject to strict rules of segregation. The men were billeted on male-only decks while the women and children were restricted to their own areas. Even for married couples, there was strictly no fraternisation whilst in passage. But travelling together wasn’t an option anyway, since Freddie wasn’t yet tour-expired. And if Nelli had turned down this opportunity, there was no saying when another would have come up.
So Saturday week it was to be, and the chaplain was going to spend some of the intervening time trying to make contact with a local Protestant church pastor with whom he had in mind to share the service. Nelli had asked him to use his network to supplement the enquiries she was making within her own fragmented community, for she was by no means certain what had happened to the Dutch clergy following the arrival of the Japanese in 1942. She knew that the churches had been closed for the past three years, and although there was a possibility that one or two pastors had gone underground for the duration, she feared that most had either fled or been disposed of either by either the Japanese or the nationalists. At any rate she had not heard of any resumption of public worship following the end of the war.
The chaplain promised to do his best to help, and as he waved them out of his office door at the end of the interview he happily anticipated what he knew would be a joyous occasion. Almost as importantly from the point of view of his ministry at Kemajoran, he recognised the potential symbolism of holding a wedding service at the airbase. Especially one involving a crewmember who had so nearly been a victim at Bekasi and a bride who so clearly represented their humanitarian mission. He thought he might also make something in his sermon of the appropriateness of a British airman marrying a Dutch woman brought up in Java. He smiled at the incongruity of writing a prepared sermon; perhaps he’d be better to await divine inspiration on the day!
But still, he reflected, he’d have plenty to work with. The men would scrape together what passed in the jungle for their best uniforms. They’d remember their fallen comrades as they celebrated the consummation of a new beginning. The lives of their dead friends would not be forgotten on what would be a marvellous occasion, but the chaplain saw the coming event as a turning over of a page.
****
The wedding came and went in a blur. The airmen turned out in force, forming an improvised guard of honour. The camp cooks rustled up from somewhere a magnificent feast – the quartermaster, as always seemed to be the case on special occasions, found hitherto unsuspected stocks of alcohol – and it was a wonderful day.
Afterwards, Nelli was happily going over it with her new husband.
“Did you notice how merry your crewmembers were in the church, Freddie? Merry – is that the right English word, Freddie? I’ve never heard such wholehearted singing!”
Her husband had indeed noticed rather an excess of jollity, caused he had no doubt by a certain amount of ‘hair of the dog’ following his stag night.
“Merry – yes, that’s an excellent word. Perhaps it was due to the continuing release of tension, my darling.”
Apparently satisfied with his answer, she relaxed in his arms.
CHAPTER 28
All of a sudden, it seemed, their job was done. The flow of released internees had of late slowed to a trickle, and the powers-that-be had decided that the residual task could be completed by ground forces. The air officer commanding came down from Singapore to brief the squadron commander on plans for the future.
“Outstanding job you and your boys have done here, Brian. With some most appalling tragedies en route, I know. I’ve followed your adventures very closely, and I must say we at HQ have been as shocked as you have at the way the mission has unfolded. But you’ve all coped in the most exemplary fashion. Sadly, I can’t imagine that there will be many medals to share around. Nor very much reported in the press about it. Too many sensitivities about the operation. Indeed I shouldn’t wonder if the government would be happiest if memories of what’s been going on here were just gently to fade away. But never mind; you’ll all have your own satisfaction in a job well done.”
Macnamara wondered whether the AOC was thinking, as he was, of those who wouldn’t be going home. “Indeed, sir.”
“And you must be very proud of your team.”
This of course was entirely true. Early thoughts of the men’s focus being on life back home had rapidly evaporated, and nobody could have wished for a more dedicated effort.
“Of course, sir, I’m most certainly as proud as any commander could be. And I’ll be sure to pass on to the men your appreciation of their work.”
“Good. Good. Damned fine effort. Now it’s time you all took a rest. I know you’ve been working already to get the longest serving of your people home, and I’m sorry that it’s not always worked out. But I know you’ve understood our problem, and as far as we’ve been able to see you’ve done an outstanding job with keeping your chaps motivated.”
“Daily seeing the gratitude of those released internees was sufficient motivation in most cases, sir.”
“Quite. Anyway, you’ll all be going home soon. You’ll be well aware that the RAF is going through a huge contraction following the end of the war, and the main news I have for you is that 31 Squadron is to disband on the 1st of November.”
“Well, the men will be pleased to take a break. But I think they’ll nevertheless all be sorry to see the end of such a fine squadron.”
“Don’t worry about that. We couldn’t let that happen. You might or might not be aware that there’s potentially a new trouble spot blowing up in another part of the world – an area that’s right up Thirty-One’s street.”
“We’re a bit out of touch with world news here, sir. I’m not sure I can think what you have in mind.”
“India. Independence. Things are coming to a head there and it’s anticipated that there’s going to be a refugee problem up on the Nor
th West Frontier. So Thirty-One is to reform near Karachi with a view to picking up the baton there. ‘First in the Indian Skies’ – isn’t that the squadron’s motto and heritage?”
“Indeed it is. The Frontier was the squadron’s home right from the days of its formation in 1915.”
“I thought so. And if we read the signs correctly there will be much work there for a Dakota unit.”
“Does that mean then, sir, that any of our people and aircraft will be transferred?”
“No, I promised that you’ll all be stood down and I meant that. Although I haven’t been as successful as I’d hoped to be in negotiating early repatriation for the men, circumstances have come to my rescue. You’re all going home. Another Dakota outfit that’s at full complement and operating in the area – number 77 – is to be renumbered as 31 Squadron. They’re already up and running and will do the number-plate proud.”
“I’m very glad to hear that, sir. And I can assure you we shall enjoy our rest.”
****
The wing commander made sure that all his men received the news as soon as he could pass it on, and although the work continued there was still ample time for partying. On the morning after one of these sessions, Macnamara spotted Ken passing his tent, and called him in.
“A good time to go home, don’t you think?”
“Yes I do, sir. But in truth I think we’re all a little bit scared of taking that next step.”
“You’re right. Despite all the general celebration and anticipation, I’m very conscious of that emotion. The continuing worry about what awaits them at home. The nervousness at the thought of leaving the group. How are you placed yourself?”
“Oh, I’m fine, sir. Cheerfully unattached. Looking forward to seeing mum and dad – although dad’s work was in the Halifax shipyards and of course that’s hugely reduced now. So that’s a worry. But we’ve come through unscathed, I suppose, so we should count our blessings.”
“Yes. Unscathed in physical terms. But I wonder sometimes about the unseen effects. Not just on those of us out here, but on all who’ve come through this bloody war seemingly intact. It’s all right for me, really; I’m a career officer, and my wife and I more or less accept the baggage that goes with the contract. But, for example, I have a twenty-eight year-old cousin who’s just about to get married. He and his fiancée, who’s the same age, have physically survived the war. But they’ve both served from the age of twenty-one. That’s a huge chunk of their young lives gone – what might be called their best years, don’t you think? They’ll not have children until they’re nigh on thirty. I worry about that. Cigarette, by the way, Ken?” He offered a case of Player’s.