Singapore 52

by Bailey, Murray

  When I left the major’s office, the desk clerk was practically hopping from foot to foot outside.

  “Captain,” he said excitedly, “I have two things for you.”

  He handed me a piece of paper that I opened up. On it was a list of twelve names.

  “From Colonel Atkinson,” the clerk explained.

  This was the list of naval officers that I’d requested. I thanked the clerk and asked what the other thing was.

  “Lieutenant Robshaw and Sergeant Hegarty have gone to Woodlands Crossing.”

  This was the causeway, the only land route to Malaya.

  “And?” I prompted.

  “You should meet them there. Apparently your AWOL warrant office has been spotted. Sergeant Cooke may have tried to cross.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Finding a driver, I headed north on the main road through the island and watched a constant flow of traffic coming the other way.

  After we passed through a village called Bukit Timah, my driver, a young lad called Private Evans, said it was how far the Japanese had made it with limited resistance when they invaded.

  “Caught us by surprise, they did,” he explained. “The Japs just cycled over the causeway while our guns were pointed out to sea.”

  I had heard the story about the guns.

  He continued: “But that wasn’t the issue really. The shells were armour-piercing not explosive. When the guns were turned inland they had little impact.”

  He told me that it only took a week for Singapore to fall and mentioned that the first attack was met by Australian battalions and 44th Indian Infantry. Then he went on to tell me in great detail about the Jurong Line and the battle on the high ground of Bukit Timah. It had been short lived because the line was too thin and collapsed.

  Private Evans was undoubtedly the expert that Hegarty had referred to.

  When he paused, I said, “I saw the holes at Tanglin where someone was executed for cowardice.”

  “Just a rumour. Allegedly a group deserted their position at Bukit Timah and their ringleader was executed. It might be confused with a misunderstanding of orders that caused the line to break up because I’ve never read anything to back up the story.”

  He went back to telling me details of the invasion and strategic errors, clearly used to the sound of his own voice and pleased to have a captive audience.

  When he started talking as though he relished the idea of Malaya turning into a conflict like Korea, I tuned him out and thought about Cooke.

  Had the sergeant gone AWOL because of our pressure on the quartermaster’s office or was it something totally unconnected? If he had been at the crossing, had he gone straight there and what transportation had he used? There were plenty of trucks on the road and hitching seemed commonplace.

  We had been travelling on laterite-covered roads through uninterrupted jungle. Suddenly the surface changed to concrete and the jungle thinned. We rounded a corner and I could see the Woodlands Crossing post. There was a queue of people and vehicles. In front of them, the road was blocked by a checkpoint. A short distance ahead, a second set blocked the causeway. There were three wooden huts: two for accommodation and one an office for processing people crossing into Singapore. There was a separate, more substantial Customs building.

  My driver scooted around to the head of the queue. After a brief word with the guard, the first barrier was raised for us and we were directed to a parking spot next to another jeep and a troop carrier.

  Robshaw and Hegarty were there talking to a tall soldier. They waved me over and I was introduced to a lieutenant in charge of the post.

  “There’s been a sighting of Sergeant Cooke?” I asked.

  Hegarty said, “Night before last I’m afraid.”

  The lieutenant said, “We’ve only just been issued with the bulletin and called it in straight away.”

  I asked my driver to wait in the jeep and the lieutenant led us into the office and introduced us to Private Allen.

  “Allen here is the one who recognized our man.”

  “At least I think so,” Allen said nervously.

  We sat down and I said, “Tell us what happened, soldier.”

  “Two nights ago,” the man began, “I’d been on duty since nineteen-hundred hours. It was busy… busier than usual. We’d had a lorry breakdown on the causeway so there was quite a queue of traffic.”

  He paused, perhaps envisaging the evening.

  The lieutenant said, “Go on. What did you see?”

  “There was a car in the line that turned around just before it got to the front. I thought it was a bit odd. I mean, why queue for a good half an hour and then give up? So I shone the light at it and saw his face. Only I didn’t realize it was his face, of course.”

  “But you remembered it,” I said.

  “Yes. I thought he looked familiar. Turns out he’s from the Stores at Tanglin, so I’ll have seen him there.”

  “Although you didn’t recognize him at the time?”

  The lieutenant chipped in, “There’s almost a thousand men at Tanglin…”

  The private said, “It wasn’t until I saw the AWOL bulletin that I realized who it was. He’d been in civvies and we see so many people up here.”

  I nodded.

  “What time was this?”

  “Must have been about two. It was definitely before two-thirty-six.”

  “Two-thirty-six,” the lieutenant confirmed, “that was when we heard the gun shots from across the water. Every time there’s potential bandit activity over the way, we have to report it. The shots were at two-thirty-six that night.”

  To the private I said, “What else can you tell us? What about the type of car?”

  “Sorry, I’ve tried to remember…”

  The lieutenant said, “Allen, tell them what happened next.”

  “The car drove off. South. Only I’m not sure it did.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, after he turned around, he drove slowly away but then the rear lights went out. I was still watching, see, wondering what on earth was going on.”

  “Show us. Let’s go outside and show us where you were standing and where the car was.”

  We walked out of the office and stood by the first barrier.

  “I was on the causeway side,” Allen said. He pointed to a truck third in line on the left hand side of the road. “The car was where the truck is now. I didn’t pay it any heed until it was side on in a three-point turn. That’s when I shone my torch at the window.”

  “From here?”

  “No, I started walking towards it as it pulled out of the line. At first I thought he was going to overtake. You know, every now and then someone tries to queue jump. I was also a bit nervous, though if there was ever going to be any trouble, it would be from the other side, right?”

  I looked up the road. The queue went around the bend about one hundred and fifty yards ahead.

  “You say the lights went out. Could he have just driven around the corner so you couldn’t see the lights anymore?”

  For a moment the private looked uncertain.

  The lieutenant prompted him: “How far along do you think the car got before the lights went out?”

  “Maybe a hundred yards. I can’t be sure. It was pretty dark. It could have sped up I suppose.”

  We left the lieutenant and private and walked back up the road on the left hand side, the queue of traffic on our right.

  “It’s very odd,” Hegarty said.

  I had to agree. “What was he up to?”

  The other two didn’t respond. We got to a hundred yards out and looked back at the post. The private signalled we should go a little further. We walked another twenty.

  Robshaw rubbed at his blond hair. “The chap’s mistaken. Cooke drove away. The lights didn’t go off. Why would they?”

  I was looking at the ground, reminded of the location where my friend’s car had been driven off the road. Unlike that site, there was
no verge here, but the ground beside the concrete was soft.

  “Let’s keep walking,” I said.

  We were out of sight of the guard post when I stopped and checked the ground. A car had recently driven over it.

  “But we’re round the bend,” Hegarty said in response to me pointing it out. “Allen told us the lights went out well before.”

  “But maybe he didn’t stop straight away. Maybe he saw where he wanted to stop and turned the lights out early.”

  Robshaw looked back the way we’d come. “You think he parked here and snuck back on foot?”

  “No,” I said, pointing to the trees. “I think he went that way.”

  The other two shook their heads as though I were mad. But it looked like there was a route through the undergrowth and between the trees.

  I could sense they were sceptical but they followed me into the jungle.

  “It’s an animal path,” Hegarty said behind me just as I spotted something.

  “That’s the oddest looking animal track I’ve ever seen,” I said and pointed to a footprint.

  Hegarty checked it against his own boot. “About size, nine,” he said. “Could be Cooke.”

  We kept walking and I could see clear signs that something human-sized had been through here. Branches were bent back and broken. We also found a footprint going the opposite way, which puzzled me.

  “Perhaps he wasn’t sure of the way?” Robshaw suggested.

  “Maybe he doubled back or we’ve missed a turn he made?”

  The trail suggested he’d carried on, at least for a while and so did we.

  We covered about a mile when I asked, “Where does this eventually come out do you think?”

  “The main naval base is on the north coast,” Robshaw said. “But that’s quite a few miles further.”

  “At night, walking through this jungle on a difficult trail. Why?” I asked more to myself than the others.

  Then Robshaw said, “The water.”

  We could see the straits through the trees and the path was now heading for it. There was a slight clearing with a churned up muddy area. Again size nine boots.

  We looked around and decided he hadn’t continued along the coast. There were two options: Cooke had doubled back into the undergrowth or he had gone into the water.

  “He swam for it,” Hegarty suggested. “He couldn’t cross at the causeway for fear of being recognized so he swam across.”

  We decided to keep on going, just in case Cooke had gone into the water and had come out again further along. We walked for another ten minutes and then Robshaw spotted something in the water. It was snagged on a submerged branch.

  After a bit of complaining, Hegarty removed his boots and socks, and waded in. The water was splashing the hem of his shorts by the time he reached the object.

  “What is it?” I called.

  “Could be…” he started to say as he tugged the item free. “Yes it is. It’s a kitbag!”

  He struggled back, dragging the bag behind him.

  It was sodden, but securely tied and Robshaw and I left it with the sergeant as we scoured the bank for any sign of Cooke having come out of the water further along.

  When we got back, Hegarty was standing on the track with his boots on again. The kitbag was leaning against a tree.

  “OK,” I said, “let’s get this bag to Gillman and see what we’ve got.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Only Hegarty could have shown such enthusiasm as he tipped everything from the kitbag onto a table in the shared office. He separated out the sodden clothes into civilian and army. The army fatigues had the name William Cooke written in them. Definitely his bag then.

  Along with the clothes, there were some personal items but the main interest was a plastic bag. Inside was a wad of documents and a significant amount of money. Some of the money was Chinese but the majority was Sterling.

  Hegarty counted it. Fifty British pounds—a considerable sum in those days.

  The documents included his British passport, a bundle that appeared legal and a letter. Except for the passport, they all looked to be in Chinese.

  “Blimey,” Hegarty said. “He really was deserting then.”

  “What do you think?” Robshaw asked me.

  “Maybe,” I said. I was distracted by the empty kitbag that now lay on the floor where Hegarty had dumped it. The crumpled canvas didn’t look quite natural.

  I picked it up. There was a hard edge where there shouldn’t have been one. I turned the bag inside out to investigate and found a pouch sewn into the side near the bottom. When I cut the seam a book fell out. A pocket sized ledger. It was sodden, but I managed to open it without destroying the pages. It was a record book with dates and numbers. I also noted Greek letters against each entry.

  Hegarty waited for me to look up before he said, “What now, Boss?”

  “Do your best to dry these wet pages. I’m taking the rest of the papers and going to lunch.” I was thinking about Su Ling’s message. “Would you drop me at Goodwood Park?”

  Goodwood Park was a classy building close to the botanic gardens. The atmosphere inside was of a bygone era, the nineteen-twenties, perhaps.

  The lounge area had elegant furniture, with a lot of wood and shiny brass. The clientele was as classy as the building. I didn’t think of myself as a snob, but it was just nice to escape the rowdiness of most of the Singapore bars.

  A Malay boy played beautifully on a grand piano, just loud enough to be heard and quiet enough to be background noise while the customers talked about the price of rubber, the next amateur theatre production, where the next dance was to be held or who the latest entertainment for a great garden party should be. I heard no talk of war and I suspected that the same set had been no different as the Japanese prepared to invade a decade earlier.

  The only negative was the pall of cigarette smoke which clung to the ceiling like an inverted grey carpet.

  I chose a table for two by the doors to the garden so that I could breathe the cleaner air. While I waited for Su Ling, I ordered sparkling water and glanced at the menu.

  A German gentleman with a thin but friendly smile introduced himself and shook my hand. He knew Pope and had heard about the incident at the market on my first day.

  “And how is his daughter?” I asked.

  “She’s fully recovered,” the man said. “May I join you?”

  I explained I was waiting for someone and he took that as an invitation to sit and wait with me.

  “This used to be known as the German Club,” he said as he was poured a glass of wine. “Before the war that is.” He laughed and I found him affable.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, do you come across anything anti-German here?” I was thinking about the Japanese again and whether there was an anti-war issue.

  “Not here.”

  “I mean Singapore generally.”

  He grinned. “Oh I thought you meant the club, here. No, not really… unless you count the soldiers.”

  “The soldiers?”

  “Nothing specific. You know, they can get a bit rowdy and they still hate us. But I’ve never had any real trouble.”

  “And what about the Japanese?”

  “It is similar,” he said and I thought his smile looked sad. “Of course you had first-hand experience of the soldiers but there is a bit more because of the history. We call it Hassliebe—there is a love-hate relationship between the Japanese and Chinese on the island.”

  We made small talk until I became distracted. Su Ling had entered the club and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. The German shook my hand again and gave me his thin, friendly smile. But then between his teeth he said something strange.

  “Be careful of that one.”

  He retreated to the bar and I turned my attention to Su Ling as she approached my table.

  She was dressed in a stunning royal blue silk cheongsam with cream trim. The wrist strap also had a matching trim. No longer the party girl from the n
ight before, once more the consummate Chinese business-lady.

  I stood and leaned forward to kiss her but she reached out and took my hand in a gesture of formality.

  “Just for appearances,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Who was your friend?”

  I glanced over at the man who was now chatting to someone at another table.

  “A barfly, I suspect.”

  She seemed to study him before focusing her attention back on me.

  “Have you eaten?”

  I shook my head. “I was waiting for you.”

  “Eggs Benedict,” she said. “Not very Chinese, I know, but I can recommend it highly.”

  It sounded good to me so we both ordered and she asked for a glass of wine.

  We sat in silence for a while and I found myself staring at her.

  She took a sip of wine. “Do you know the story of Pavlova?” she asked, breaking the spell and pointing to a photograph behind the bar.

  I knew Pavlova was a famous Russian ballerina but that was the limit of my knowledge. I shook my head.

  “The photograph is signed because she once danced here at the Goodwood Park!” There was a girlish thrill to her voice as she continued: “The story goes that she was due to dance at the town hall, which is an appropriate and auspicious venue. However when she arrived the hall had been booked by an amateur dramatics society. Can you imagine? They insisted that Gilbert and Sullivan was more important than any dancing! So as a result Pavlova danced here at the Goodwood on a small stage. It was totally impromptu!”

  “You like ballet?”

  “Can you tell?”

  I smiled. “You look like a ballerina.”

  “I’m too tall,” she said and then added, “Actually I’d rather not talk about it.”

  For a moment there was an awkward silence.

  “That flyer…” she started.

  “Yes.”

  “You said the police thought it might be a date.”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at me for a moment and I was again drawn into her eyes that were definitely green.

  “What?” I said.

  She said, “Forty is nineteen fifty-two. It’s the fortieth year since the nationalist democratic revolution—when China became a republic. Forty, February tenth is Lantern’s Day, this year.”