Half an hour passed, an hour, and even her own steps began to flag as despair touched her for the first time. They could never find the soldiers, never, not in this endless confusion and darkness. It was desperately unfair of their doctor, Major Blackley, to have expected it of them. And even with the thought the girl knew that it was not Blackley who was unfair but herself: when dawn came on the outskirts of Singapore, the life of neither man nor woman would be worth a moment’s purchase—it all depended on what kind of mood the Japanese had been in: she had met them before and had bitter cause to remember the meeting, and scars that would bear witness of that meeting, for the rest of her life. The further away from the Jap’s immediate blood-lust the better: besides, as the Major had pointed out, none of them was in a fit state to remain any longer where they were. Unknowingly, almost, the girl shook her head, quickened her pace again and turned off down another dark and empty street.
Fear and dismay, sickness and despair—such were the things that coloured and dominated the entire existences of the wandering band of soldiers, the little boy and the nurses, and tens of thousands of others on that midnight of 14th February, 1942, as the exultant, all-conquering Japanese crouched outside the last defences of the city, waiting for the dawn, waiting for the assault, the bloodbath and the victory that must inevitably come. But for one man at least fear and hurt and despair did not exist.
The tall, elderly man in the candle-lit waiting-room of the offices some way south of Fort Canning was conscious of none of these things. He was conscious only of the rapid passage of time, of the most overwhelming urgency he had ever known, of the almost inhuman burden of responsibility that lay in his hands alone. He was conscious of these things, consumed by them to the exclusion of all else, yet no trace of them showed in the expressionless calm of the lined, brick-red face beneath the shock of thick white hair. Perhaps the tip of the Burma cheroot that jutted up jauntily past the bristling white moustache and aquiline nose glowed just a little too brightly, perhaps he sat just that little too relaxed in his cane-bottomed armchair, but that was all. To all outward appearances Foster Farnholme, Brigadier-General (Ret.), was at peace with the world.
The door behind him opened and a young, tired-looking sergeant came into the room. Farnholme removed the cheroot from his mouth, turned his head slowly and raised one tufted eyebrow in mute interrogation.
“I’ve delivered your message, sir.” The sergeant sounded as tired as he looked. “Captain Bryceland says he’ll be along right away.”
“Bryceland?” The white eyebrows met in a bar-straight line across the deep-set eyes. “Who the devil’s Captain Bryceland? Look, sonny, I asked, specifically, to see your colonel, and I must see him, immediately. At once. You understand?”
“Perhaps I can be of some help.” Another man stood in the doorway now, behind the sergeant. Even in the flickering candle-light it was possible to see the badly bloodshot eyes, the fever-flush that stained the yellow cheeks, but his soft Welsh voice was civil enough.
“Bryceland?”
The young officer nodded, said nothing.
“You certainly can help,” Farnholme nodded. “Your colonel, please, and right away. I haven’t a moment to lose.”
“I can’t do it.” Bryceland shook his head. “He’s having his first sleep for three days and three nights—and God only knows we’re going to need him with us tomorrow morning.”
“I know. Nevertheless, I must see him.” Farnholme paused, waited until the frenetic hammering of a nearby heavy machine-gun had died away, then went on very quietly, very earnestly. “Captain Bryceland, you can’t even begin to guess how vitally important it is that I see your colonel. Singapore is nothing—not compared to my business.” He slid a hand beneath his shirt, brought out a black Colt automatic—the heavy .45. “If I have to find him myself, I’ll use this and I’ll find him, but I don’t think I’ll need it. Tell your colonel that Brigadier Farnholme is here. He’ll come.”
Bryceland looked at him for a long moment, hesitated, nodded, then turned away without a word. He was back inside three minutes and stood aside at the doorway to let the man following him precede him into the room.
The colonel, Farnholme guessed, must have been a man of about forty-five—fifty at the most. He looked about seventy, and walked with the swaying, half-inebriated gait of a man who has lived too long with exhaustion. He had difficulty in keeping his eyes open, but he managed to smile as he walked slowly across the room and extended a courteous hand.
“Good evening, sir. Where in the world have you come from?”
“Evening, Colonel.” On his feet now, Farnholme ignored the question. “You know of me, then?”
“I know of you. I heard about you for the first time, sir—just three nights ago.”
“Good, good.” Farnholme nodded in satisfaction. “That will save a lot of explaining—and I’ve no time for explanations. I’ll come to the point right away.” He half-turned as the explosion of a shell landing very close shook the room, the shock wave of displaced air almost blowing the candles out, then looked back at the colonel. “I want a ‘plane out of Singapore, Colonel. I don’t care what kind of ‘plane, I don’t care who you’ve got to shove off to get me on board, I don’t care where it’s going—Burma, India, Ceylon, Australia—it’s all the same to me. I want a ‘plane out of Singapore—immediately.”
“You want a ‘plane out of Singapore.” The colonel echoed the words tonelessly, his voice as wooden as the expression on his face, then he suddenly smiled, tiredly, as if the effort had cost him a great deal. “Don’t we all, Brigadier.”
“You don’t understand.” Slowly, with a gesture of infinitely controlled patience, Farnholme ground out his cheroot on an ashtray. “I know there are hundreds of wounded and sick, women and children—”
“The last ‘plane has already gone,” the colonel interrupted flatly. He rubbed a bare forearm across exhausted eyes. “A day, two days ago—I’m not sure.”
“11th February,” Bryceland supplied. “The Hurricanes, sir. They left for Palembang.”
“That’s right,” the colonel remembered. “The Hurricanes. They left in a great hurry.”
“The last plane.” Farnholme’s voice was empty of all emotion. “The last ‘plane. But—but there were others, I know. Brewster fighters, Wildebeestes—”
“All gone, all destroyed.” The colonel was watching Farnholme now with some vague curiosity in his eyes. “Even if they weren’t, it would make no difference. Seletar, Sembawang, Tengah—the Japs have all these aerodromes. I don’t know about Kallang airport—but I do know it’s useless.”
“I see. I see indeed.” Farnholme stared down at the gladstone bag beside his feet, then looked up again. “The flying-boats, Colonel? The Catalinas?”
The colonel shook his head in slow finality. Farnholme gazed at him for long seconds with unwinking eyes, nodded his head in understanding and acceptance, then glanced at his watch. “May I see you alone, Colonel?”
“Certainly.” The colonel didn’t even hesitate. He waited until the door had closed softly behind Bryceland and the sergeant, then smiled faintly at Farnholme. “I’m afraid the last ‘plane has still gone, sir.”
“I never doubted it.” Farnholme, busy unbuttoning his shirt, paused and glanced up. “You know who I am, Colonel—not just my name, I mean?”
“I’ve known for three days. Utmost secrecy, and all that—it was thought you might be in the area.” For the first time the colonel regarded his visitor with open curiosity. “Seventeen years counterespionage-chief in South-East Asia, speak more Asiatic languages than any other—”
“Spare my blushes.” His shirt unbuttoned, Farnholme was unfastening a wide, flat rubber-covered belt that encircled his waist. “I don’t suppose you speak any Eastern languages yourself, Colonel?”
“For my sins, yes. That’s why I’m here. Japanese.” The colonel grinned mirthlessly. “It’ll come in very handy in the concentration camps, I should think.”
The colonel glanced sharply at him, glanced down at the photostats and rolls of film that lay on the table, nodded, went out of the room and returned with a pair of spectacles, a magnifying glass and a torch. For three minutes he sat at the table without looking up or speaking. From outside came the occasional crump of an exploding shell, the staccato chattering of a distant machine-gun and the evil whine of some misshapen ricochet whistling blindly through the smoke-filled night. But no noise whatsoever came from inside the room itself. The colonel sat at his table like a man carved from stone, only his eyes alive: Farnholme, a fresh cheroot in his mouth, was stretched out in his wicker chair, lost in a seeming vast indifference.
By and by the colonel stirred and looked across at Farnholme. When he spoke both his voice and the hands that held the photostats were unsteady.
“I don’t need Japanese to understand these. My God, sir, where did you get them?”
“Borneo. Two of our best men, and two Dutchmen, died to get these. But that’s not important now, and quite irrelevant.” Farnholme puffed at his cheroot. “All that matters is that I have them and the Japs don’t know it.”
The colonel didn’t seem to have heard him. He was staring down at the papers in his hands, shaking his head slowly from side to side. Finally he laid the papers down on the desk, folded his spectacles away into their case and lit a cigarette. His hands were still trembling.
“This is fantastic,” he muttered. “This is quite fantastic. There can only be a few of these in existence. All Northern Australia—blueprints for invasion!”
“Complete in every relevant detail,” Farnholme assented. “The invasion ports and airfields, the times to the last minute, the forces to be used down to the last battalion of infantry.”
“Yes.” The colonel stared down at the photostats, his brows wrinkling. “But there’s something that—”
“I know, I know,” Farnholme interrupted bitterly. “We haven’t got the key. It was inevitable. The dates and primary and secondary objectives are in code. They couldn’t take the risk of having these in plain language—and Japanese codes are unbreakable, all of them. All of them, that is, except to a little old man in London who looks as if he couldn’t write his own name.” He paused and puffed some more blue smoke into the air. “Still, It’s quite something, isn’t it, Colonel?”
“But—but how did you happen to get—”
“That’s quite irrelevant, I’ve told you.” The steel below was beginning to show through the camouflage of lazy indifference. He shook his head, then laughed softly. “Sorry, Colonel. Must be getting edgy. There was no ‘happen’ about it, I assure you. I’ve worked for five years on one thing and one thing only—to get these delivered to me at the right time and the right place: the Japanese are not incorruptible. I managed to get them at the right time: not at the right place. That’s why I’m here.”
The colonel hadn’t even been listening. He had been staring down at the papers, shaking his head slowly from side to side, but now he looked up again. All at once his face was haggard and defeated and very old.
“These papers—these papers are priceless, sir.” He lifted the photostats in his hand and stared unseeingly at Farnholme. “God above, all the fortunes that ever were are nothing compared to these. It’s all the difference between life and death, victory and defeat. It’s—it’s—great heavens, sir, think of Australia! Our people must have these—they must have them!”
“Exactly,” Farnholme agreed. “They must have them.”
The colonel stared at him in silence, the tired eyes slowly widening in shocked understanding, then slumped back into his chair, his head resting on his chest. The spiralling cigarette smoke laced painfully across his eyes, but he didn’t even seem to notice it.
“Exactly, once again,” Farnholme said dryly. He reached out for the films and photostats and began to replace them carefully in the waterproof pouches of his belt. “You begin to understand, perhaps, my earlier anxiety for—ah—aerial transport out of Singapore.” He zipped the pouches shut. “I’m still as anxious as ever, I assure you.”
The colonel nodded dully, but said nothing.
“No ‘plane at all?” Farnholme persisted. “Not even the most dilapidated, broken down—” He stopped abruptly at the sight of the expression on the colonel’s face, then tried again. “Submarine?”
“No.”
Farnholme’s mouth tightened. “Destroyer, frigate, any naval vessel at all?”
“No.” The colonel stirred. “And not even a merchant ship. The last of them—the Grasshopper, Tien Kwang, Katydid, Kuala, Dragonfly and a few other small coastal vessels like these—pulled out of Singapore last night. They won’t be back. They wouldn’t get a hundred miles, even, the Jap air force is everywhere round the archipelago. Wounded, women and children aboard all these vessels, Brigadier. Most of them will finish up at the bottom of the sea.”
“A kindly alternative to a Japanese prison camp. Believe me, Colonel, I know.” Farnholme was buckling on the heavy belt again. He sighed. “This is all very handy, Colonel. Where do we go from here?”
“Why in God’s name did you ever come here?” the colonel demanded bitterly. “Of all places, of all times, you had to come to Singapore now. And how in the world did you manage to get here anyway?”
“Boat from Banjermasin,” Farnholme replied briefly. “The Kerry Dancer—the most dilapidated floating death-trap that was ever refused a certificate of seaworthiness. Operated by a smooth, dangerous character by the name of Siran. Hard to say, but I’d almost swear he was a renegade Englishman of some kind, and on more than nodding terms with the Japs. He stated he was heading for Kota Bharu—lord knows why—but he changed his mind and came here.”
“He changed his mind?”
“I paid him well. Not my money, so I could afford it. I thought Singapore would be safe enough. I was in North Borneo when I heard on my own receiver that Hong Kong and Guam and Wake had fallen, but I had to move in a considerable hurry. A long time passed before I heard the next item of news, and that was on board the Kerry Dancer. We waited ten days in Banjermasin before Siran condescended to sail,” Farnholme went on bitterly. “The only respectable piece of equipment and the only respectable man on that ship were both to be found in the radio room—Siran must have considered them both necessary for his nefarious activities—and I was in the radio room with this lad Loon on our second day aboard the ship—29th January, it was, when we picked up this B.B.C. broadcast that Ipoh was being bombarded, so, naturally, I thought the Japs were advancing very slowly and that we’d plenty of time to go to Singapore and pick up a ‘plane.”
The colonel nodded in understanding. “I heard that communiqué, too. Heaven only knows who was responsible for that appalling claptrap. Ipoh had actually fallen to the Japs more than a month before that, sir. The Japs were only a few miles north of the causeway at the time. My God, what a damnable mess!” He shook his head slowly. “A damnable, damnable mess!”
“You put things very mildly,” Farnholme agreed. “How long have we got?”
“We’re surrendering tomorrow.” The colonel stared down at his hands.
“Tomorrow!”
“We’re all washed up, sir. Nothing more we can do. And we’ve no water left. When we blew up the causeway we blew up the only water-pipe from the mainland.”
“Very clever, far-seeing chaps who designed our defences here,” Farnholme muttered. “And thirty million quid spent on it. Impregnable fortress. Bigger and better than Gib. Blah, blah, blah. God, it all makes you sick!” He snorted in disgust, rose to his feet and sighed. “Ah, well, nothing else for it. Back to the dear old Kerry Dancer. God help Australia!”
“The Kerry Dancer!” The colonel was astonished. “She’ll be gone an hour after dawn, sir. I tell you, the Straits are swarmi
ng with Japanese ‘planes.”
“What alternative can you offer?” Farnholme asked wearily.
“I know, I know. But even if you are lucky, what guarantee have you that the captain will go where you want him to?”
“None,” Farnholme admitted. “But there’s a rather handy Dutchman aboard, by the name of Van Effen. Together we may be able to persuade our worthy captain where the path of duty lies.”
“Perhaps.” A sudden thought occurred to the colonel. “Besides, what guarantee have you that he’ll even be waiting when you get back down to the waterfront?”
“Here it is.” Farnholme prodded the shabby valise lying by his feet. “My guarantee and insurance policy—I hope. Siran thinks this thing’s stuffed full of diamonds—I used some of them to bribe him to come here—and he’s not so far out. Just so long as he thinks there’s a chance of separating me from these, he’ll hang on to me like a blood brother.”
“He—he doesn’t suspect—”
“Not a chance. He thinks I’m a drunken old reprobate on the run with ill-gotten gains. I have been at some pains to—ah—maintain the impersonation.”
“I see, sir.” The colonel came to a decision and reached out for a bell. When the sergeant appeared, he said, “Ask Captain Bryceland to come here.”
Farnholme lifted an eyebrow in silent interrogation.
“It’s the least I can do, sir,” the colonel explained, “I can’t provide a plane. I can’t guarantee you won’t all be sunk before noon tomorrow. But I can guarantee that the captain of the Kerry Dancer will follow your instructions implicitly. I’m going to detail a subaltern and a couple of dozen men from a Highland regiment to accompany you on the Kerry Dancer.” He smiled. “They’re a tough bunch at the best of times, but they’re in an especially savage mood just now. I don’t think Captain Siran will give you very much trouble.”
“I’m sure he won’t. Damned grateful to you. Colonel. It should help a lot.” He buttoned his shirt, picked up his gladstone and extended his hand. “Thanks for everything, Colonel. It sounds silly knowing a concentration camp is awaiting you—but, well, all the best.”
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