South by Java Head

by Alistair MacLean

  “Thank you, sir. And all the luck to you—God knows you’re going to need it.” He glanced down in the region of the concealed belt that held the photostats, then finished sombrely. “We’ve at least got a chance.”

  The smoke was slowly clearing when Brigadier Farnholme went out again into the darkness of the night, but the air still held that curious, unpleasant amalgam of cordite and death and corruption that the old soldier knows so well. A subaltern and a company of men were lined up outside waiting for him.

  Musketry and machine-gun fire had increased now, visibility was far better, but the shell-fire had ceased altogether—probably the Japanese saw no sense in inflicting too much damage on a city which would be theirs on the following day anyway. Farnholme and his escort moved quickly through the deserted streets through the now gently falling rain, the sound of gunfire in their ears all the time, and had reached the waterfront within a few minutes. Here the smoke, lifted by a gentle breeze from the east, was almost entirely gone.

  The smoke was gone, and almost at once Farnholme realised something that made him clutch the handle of the gladstone until his knuckles shone white and his forearms ached with the strain. The small lifeboat from the Kerry Dancer, which he had left rubbing gently against the wharf, was gone also, and the sick apprehension that at once flooded through his mind made him lift his head swiftly and stare out into the roads but there was nothing there for him to see. The Kerry Dancer was gone as if she had never existed. There was only the falling rain, the gentle breeze in his face and, away to his left, the quiet, heartbroken sobs of a little boy crying alone in the darkness.

  TWO

  The subaltern in charge of the soldiers touched Farnholme on the arm and nodded out to sea. “The boat, sir—she’s gone!”

  Farnholme restrained himself with an effort. His voice, when he spoke, was as calm and as matter-of-fact as ever.

  “So it would appear, Lieutenant. In the words of the old song, they’ve left us standing on the shore. Deuced inconvenient, to say the least of it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Farnholme’s reaction to the urgency of the situation, Lieutenant Parker felt, was hardly impressive. “What’s to be done now, sir?”

  “You may well ask, my boy.” Farnholme stood still for several moments, a hand rubbing his chin, an abstracted expression on his face. “Do you hear a child crying there, along the waterfront?” he asked suddenly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have one of your men bring him here. Preferably,” Farnholme added, “a kindly, fatherly type that won’t scare the living daylights out of him.”

  “Bring him here, sir?” The subaltern was astonished. “But there are hundreds of these little street Arabs—” He broke off suddenly as Farnholme towered over him, his eyes cold and still beneath the jutting brows.

  “I trust you are not deaf, Lieutenant Parker,” he inquired solicitously. The low-pitched voice was for the lieutenant’s ears alone, as it had been throughout.

  “Yes, sir! I mean, no, sir!” Parker hastily revised his earlier impression of Farnholme. “I’ll send a man right away, sir.”

  “Thank you. Then send a few men in either direction along the waterfront, maybe half a mile or so. Have them bring back here any person or persons they find—they may be able to throw some light on the missing boat. Let them use persuasion if necessary.”

  “Persuasion, sir?”

  “In any form. We’re not playing for pennies tonight, Lieutenant. And when you’ve given the necessary orders, I’d like a private little talk with you.”

  Farnholme strolled off some yards into the gloom. Lieutenant Parker rejoined him within a minute. Farnholme lit a fresh cheroot and looked speculatively at the young officer before him.

  “Do you know who I am, young man?” he asked abruptly.

  “No, sir.”

  “Brigadier Farnholme.” Farnholme grinned in the darkness as he saw the perceptible stiffening of the lieutenant’s shoulders. “Now that you’ve heard it, forget it. You’ve never heard of me. Understand?”

  “No, sir,” Parker said politely. “But I understand the order well enough.”

  “That’s all you need to understand. And cut out the ‘sirs’ from now on. Do you know my business?”

  “No, sir, I—”

  “No ‘sirs,’ I said,” Farnholme interrupted. “If you cut them out in private, there’s no chance of your using them in public.”

  “I’m sorry. No, I don’t know your business. But the colonel impressed upon me that it was a matter of the utmost importance and gravity.”

  “The colonel was in no way exaggerating,” Farnholme murmured feelingly. “It is better, much better, that you don’t know my business. If we ever reach safety I promise you I’ll tell you what it’s all about. Meantime, the less you and your men know the safer for all of us.” He paused, drew heavily on the cheroot and watched the tip glow redly in the night. “Do you know what a beachcomber is, Lieutenant?”

  “A beachcomber?” The sudden switch caught Parker off balance, but he recovered quickly. “Naturally.”

  “Good. That’s what I am from now on, and you will kindly treat me as such. An elderly, alcoholic and somewhat no-account beachcomber hell-bent on saving his own skin. Good-natured and tolerant contempt—that’s your line. Firm, even severe when you’ve got to be. You found me wandering about the streets, searching for some form of transport out of Singapore. You heard from me that I had arrived on a little inter-island steamer and decided that you would commandeer it for your own uses.”

  “But the ship’s gone,” Parker objected.

  “You have a point,” Farnholme admitted. “We may find it yet. There may be others, though I very much doubt it. The point is that you must have your story—and your attitude—ready, no matter what happens. Incidentally, our objective is Australia.”

  “Australia!” Parker was startled into momentary forgetfulness. “Good lord, sir, that’s thousands of miles away!”

  “It’s a fairish bit,” Farnholme conceded. “Our destination, nevertheless, even if we can’t lay hands on anything larger than a rowing boat.” He broke off and swung round. “One of your men returning, I think, Lieutenant.”

  It was. A soldier emerged out of the darkness, the three white chevrons on his arms easy to see. A very big man, over six feet tall and broad in proportion, he made the childish figure in his arms tiny by comparison. The little boy, face buried in the soldier’s sunburned neck, was still sobbing, but quietly now.

  “Here he is, sir.” The burly sergeant patted the child’s back. “The little duffer’s had a bad fright, I think, but he’ll get over it.”

  “I’m sure he will, Sergeant.” Farnholme touched the child’s shoulder. “And what’s your name, my little man, eh?”

  The little man took one quick look, flung his arms round the sergeant’s neck and burst into a fresh torrent of tears. Farnholme stepped back hastily.

  “Ah, well.” He shook his head philosophically. “Never had much of a way with children, I’m afraid. Crusty old bachelors and what have you. His name can wait.”

  “His name is Peter,” the sergeant said woodenly. “Peter Tallon. He’s two years and three months old, he lives in Mysore Road in north Singapore and he’s a member of the Church of England.”

  “He told you all that?” Farnholme asked incredulously.

  “He hasn’t spoken a word, sir. There’s an identity disc tied round his neck.”

  “Quite,” Farnholme murmured. It seemed the only appropriate remark in the circumstances. He waited until the sergeant had rejoined his men, then looked speculatively at Parker.

  “My apologies.” The lieutenant’s tone was sincere. “How the devil did you know?”

  “Be damned funny if I didn’t know after twenty-three years in the East. Sure, you’ll find Malay and Chinese waifs, but waifs only of their own choice. You don’t find them crying. If they did, they wouldn’t be crying long. These people always look after their own—not just their own
children, but their own kind.” He paused and looked quizzically at Parker. “Any guesses as to what brother Jap would have done to that kid, Lieutenant?”

  “I can guess,” Parker said sombrely. “I’ve seen a little and I’ve heard a lot.”

  “Believe it all, then double it. They’re an inhuman bunch of fiends.” He changed the subject abruptly. “Let’s rejoin your men. Berate me as we go. It’ll create no end of a good impression—from my point of view, that is.”

  Five minutes passed, then ten. The men moved about restlessly, some smoked, some sat on their packs, but no one spoke. Even the little boy had stopped crying. The intermittent crackle of gunfire carried clearly from the north-west of the town, but mostly the night was very still. The wind had shifted, and the last of the smoke was clearing slowly away. The rain was still falling, more heavily than before, and the night was growing cold.

  By and by, from the north-east, the direction of Kallang creek, came the sound of approaching footsteps, the measured paces of three soldiers marching in step and the quicker, more erratic click of feminine heels. Parker stared as they emerged out of the darkness, then turned to the soldier who had been leading the party.

  “What’s all this? Who are these people?”

  “Nurses, sir. We found them wandering a little way along the front.” The soldier sounded apologetic. “I think they were lost, sir.”

  “Lost?” Parker peered at the tall girl nearest him. “What the dickens are you people doing wandering about the town in the middle of the night?”

  “We’re looking for some wounded soldiers, sir.” The voice was soft and husky. “Wounded and sick. We—well, we don’t seem able to find them.”

  “So I gather,” Parker agreed dryly. “You in charge of this party?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s your name, please?” The lieutenant’s tone was a shade less peremptory now; the girl had a pleasant voice, and he could see that she was very tired, and shivering in the cold rain.

  “Drachmann, sir.”

  “Well, Miss Drachmann, have you seen or heard anything of a small motorboat or a coastal steamer, anywhere offshore?”

  “No, sir.” Her tone held tired surprise. “All the ships have left Singapore.”

  “I hope to heaven you’re wrong,” Parker muttered. Aloud, he said, “Know anything about kids, Miss Drachmann?”

  “What?” She sounded startled.

  “The sergeant there has found a little boy.” Parker nodded to the child still in the sergeant’s arms, but wrapped now in a waterproof cape against the cold and rain. “He’s lost, tired, lonely and his name is Peter. Will you look after him for the present?”

  “Why, of course I will.”

  Even as she was stretching out her hands for the child, more footsteps were heard approaching from the left. Not the measured steps of soldiers, nor the crisp clickety-clack of women’s heels, but a shambling, shuffling sound such as very old men might make. Or very sick men. Gradually there emerged out of the rain and the darkness a long, uncertain line of men, weaving and stumbling, in token column of twos. They were led by a little man with a high, hunched left shoulder, with a Bren gun dangling heavily from his right hand. He wore a balmoral set jauntily on his head and a wet kilt that flapped about his bare, thin knees. Two yards away from Parker he stopped, shouted out a command to halt, turned round to supervise the lowering of the stretchers—it was then that Parker saw for the first time that three of his own men were helping to carry the stretchers—then ran backwards to intercept the straggler who brought up the end of the column and was now angling off aimlessly into the darkness. Farnholme stared after him, then at the sick, maimed and exhausted men who stood there in the rain, each man lost in his suffering and silent exhaustion.

  “My God!” Farnholme shook his head in wonder. “The Pied Piper never had anything on this bunch!”

  The little man in the kilt was back at the head of the column now. Awkwardly, painfully, he lowered his Bren to the wet ground, straightened and brought his hand up to his balmoral in a salute that would have done credit to a Guards’ parade ground. “Corporal Fraser reporting, sir.” His voice had the soft burr of the north-east Highlands.

  “At ease, Corporal.” Parker stared at him. “Wouldn’t it—wouldn’t it have been easier if you’d just transferred that gun to your left hand?” A stupid question, he knew, but the sight of that long line of haggard, half-alive zombies materialising out of the darkness had had a curiously upsetting effect on him.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I think my left shoulder is kind of broken, sir.”

  “Kind of broken,” Parker echoed. With a conscious effort of will he shook off the growing sense of unreality. “What regiment, Corporal?”

  “Argyll and Sutherlands, sir.”

  “Of course.” Parker nodded. “I thought I recognised you.”

  “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Parker, isn’t it, sir.”

  “That’s right.” Parker gestured at the line of men standing patiently in the rain. “You in charge, Corporal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” The corporal’s fever-wasted face creased in puzzlement. “Dunno, sir. Suppose it’s because I’m the only fit man here.”

  “The only fit—” Parker broke off in mid-sentence, lost in incredulity. He took a deep breath. “That’s not what I meant, Corporal. What are you doing with these men? Where are you going with them?”

  “I don’t rightly know, sir,” Fraser confessed. “I was told to lead them back out of the line to a place of safety, get them some medical attention if I could.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the intermittent firing. “Things are a little bit confused up there, sir,” he finished apologetically.

  “They’re all of that,” Parker agreed. “But what are you doing down here at the waterfront?”

  “Looking for a boat, a ship, anything.” The little corporal was still apologetic. “‘Place of safety’ was my orders, sir. I thought I’d have a real go at it.”

  “A real go at it.” The feeling of unreality was back with Parker once again. “Aren’t you aware, Corporal, that by the time you get anywhere the nearest place of safety would be Australia—or India?”

  “Yes, sir.” There was no change of expression on the little man’s face.

  “Heaven give me strength.” It was Farnholme speaking for the first time, and he sounded slightly dazed. “You were going to set out for Australia in a rowing-boat with that—that—” He gestured at the line of patient, sick men, but words failed him.

  “Certainly 1 was,” Fraser said doggedly. “I’ve got a job to do.”

  “My God, you don’t give up easy, do you, Corporal?” Farnholme stared at him. “You’d have a hundred times more chance in a Jap prison camp. You can thank your lucky stars that there isn’t a boat left in Singapore.”

  “Maybe there is and maybe there isn’t,” the corporal said calmly. “But there’s a ship lying out there in the roads.” He looked at Parker. “I was just planning how to get out to it when your men came along, sir.”

  “What!” Farnholme stepped forward and gripped him by his good shoulder. “There’s a ship out there? Are you sure, man?”

  “Sure I’m sure.” Fraser disengaged his shoulder with slow dignity. “I heard its anchor going down not ten minutes ago.”

  “How do you know?” Farnholme demanded. “Perhaps the anchor was coming up and—”

  “Look, pal,” Fraser interrupted. “I may look stupid, I may even be stupid, but I know the bloody difference between—”

  “That’ll do, Corporal, that’ll do!” Parker cut him off hastily. “Where’s this ship lying?”

  “Out behind the docks, sir. About a mile out, I should say. Bit difficult to be sure—still some smoke around out there.”

  “The docks? In the Keppel Harbour?”

  “No, sir. We haven’t been near there tonight. Only a mile or so away—just beyond Malay Point.”

  Eve
n in the darkness the journey didn’t take long—fifteen minutes at the most. Parker’s men had taken over the stretchers, and others of them helped the walking wounded along. And all of them, men and women, wounded and well, were now possessed of the same overwhelming sense of urgency. Normally, no one among them would have placed much hope on any evidence so tenuous as the rattle of what might, or might not have been an anchor going down: but, so much had their minds been affected by the continuous retreats and losses of the past weeks, so certain had they been of capture before that day was through, capture and God only knew how many years of oblivion, so complete was their sense of hopelessness that even this tiny ray of hope was a blazing beacon in the dark despair of their minds. Even so the spirit of the sick men far exceeded their strength, and most of them were spent and gasping and glad to cling to their comrades for support by the time Corporal Fraser came to a halt.

  “Here, sir. It was just about here that I heard it.”

  “What direction?” Farnholme demanded. He followed the line indicated by the barrel of the corporal’s Bren, but could see nothing: as Fraser had said, smoke still lay over the dark waters … He became aware that Parker was close behind him, his mouth almost touching his ear.

  “Torch? Signal?” He could barely catch the lieutenant’s soft murmur. For a moment Farnholme hesitated, but only a moment: they had nothing to lose. Parker sensed rather than saw the nod, and turned to his sergeant.

  “Use your torch, Sergeant. Out there. Keep flashing until you get an answer or until we can see or hear something approaching. Two or three of you have a look round the docks—maybe you might find some kind of boat.”

  Five minutes passed, then ten. The sergeant’s torch clicked on and off, monotonously, but nothing moved out on the dark sea. Another five minutes, then the searchers had returned to report that they were unable to find anything. Another five minutes passed, five minutes during which the rain changed from a gentle shower to a torrential downpour that bounced high off the metalled roadway, then Corporal Fraser cleared his throat.