by Rory Marron
‘He’ll have a long wait!’
‘Yes, Major Kudo thinks so too, so he let Kondo and everyone else out on parole.’
‘After what, exactly?’ Ota asked. ‘There’s not even a three-legged dog left round here!’
‘Guess?’ Nagumo grinned. ‘He’s going after a crocodile!’
Ota’s jaw dropped. ‘The gods have mercy! Not even the Chinese eat those—or do they?’
‘Well, Kondo’s going to try it, and so am I. He says they’re supposed taste a bit like chicken.’
Ota pulled a face. ‘What’s he using for bait? An officer he has a grudge against?’
‘A three-legged dog!’
Ota grimaced.
‘Not to worry,’ laughed Nagumo. ‘Kondo says crocs aren’t fussy.’
‘That’s good to know,’ said Ota. It could be risky.’
Nagumo shrugged. ‘Of course it will! But we’ll have meat. Are you in or not? I’m not giving you any of my share!’
‘All right,’ Ota replied uneasily. ‘I’m in.’
Three hours later Nagumo, Ota, Kondo and Private Yano, Kondo’s regular side-kick and co-defendant, were making for the river in a half-track. It was a still, hot afternoon. Yano was at the wheel with Nagumo next to him, while Ota and Kondo sat on the bench seats in the back.
Kondo was a burly, unkempt man with a four-day stubble and a hangover. At his feet was a stained, putrid-smelling sack which contained the bait. Even closed it was attracting a swarm of flies. Before being conscripted Kondo had worked at Tokyo’s massive Tsukiji wholesale fish market. His short temper, limited but highly colourful vocabulary and an antipathy for authority meant that after five years of service he still held the lowest rank in the army. Kondo had spent most of those years either in the battalion’s kitchen or the stockade. His yakuza connections meant his punishments were never severe. None of the officers or NCOs wanted their relatives in Japan to suffer a visit from the mafia.
Kondo took a swig from his canteen then offered it to Ota. ‘Would you like to try this? It’s still a bit young.’
Ota smelt the raw palm wine on Kondo’s breath and declined. Kondo shrugged then, as an afterthought, poured a healthy measure over the sack to mask the rank odour. For the rest of the journey he sang snippets of folk songs out of tune.
They parked in a culvert. Kondo jumped down heavily with his rifle in one hand and the sack in the other and lumbered towards a clump of reeds. He took the cloud of flies with him. Behind, trotted the lanky Yano, carrying a coiled rope and another rifle.
‘The good thing about crocs is that they aren’t shy, Nagumo-san,’ Kondo called back casually over his shoulder, showing no respect for rank.
‘Yes,’ Ota added quietly to Nagumo, ‘the drunken hunter’s favourite prey!’
Ota and Nagumo caught up with the other two at the riverbank then immediately backed away as Kondo untied the sack and tipped out the dead dog. Its almost hairless body was covered in a mass of wriggling white maggots. Flies descended upon the carcass in seconds.
Kondo nonchalantly lifted the dog’s hind legs and tied one end of the rope tightly around the animal’s haunches. He stood up with the bait swinging against his boot. ‘Shouldn’t take long,’ he quipped, chuckling at the expressions of disgust on the faces of his audience. He gave the other end of the rope to Yano to tie off. ‘You bloody well watch like a hawk in case anything comes near me!’
‘I think I remembered to load the rifle,’ Yano said, his face dead-pan.
‘I’m not fucking joking, you know!’ Kondo bawled as he walked unsteadily into the water, sinking ankle-deep in mud with each step. He began swinging the carcass, gaining momentum for the throw.
Ota and Nagumo realised a fraction too late what would happen. They were showered in maggots.
‘Ugh!’ Nagumo muttered. ‘I never did like fishing.’
Ota held his breath, brushing himself down.
Kondo released the rope and the bait plopped noisily in the middle of the river. Mere seconds later something stirred in the reeds on the far bank and a six-foot crocodile slid quickly into the water.
‘Shit!’ Kondo spat. ‘We want a bigger fucker than that!’ He began to pull on the rope.
Suddenly it jerked in his hands and he toppled headfirst into the water with a great splash. Yano charged in after him, pointing his rifle wildly at the swirling water.
Kondo was scrambling to his feet. ‘Don’t point it at me, idiot!’ he shouted.
‘Look!’ Nagumo yelled.
In the middle of the river the water was churning where another, much bigger, crocodile was at the surface, rolling and gulping down the bait.
Kondo beamed. ‘Waa! Great, it’s at least ten feet!’
Yano started to haul in the rope. ‘Not yet, not yet!’ Kondo shouted. ‘Give him time to get it down!’
They watched the water quieten. Then the rope went taut. ‘Now!’ Kondo roared. ‘Heave!’
The four men dug in their heels and strained. Out in the river the crocodile rolled and thrashed but yard-by-yard they drew it nearer.
Ota’s muscles ached and the rope burnt the palms of his hands.
‘It’s getting tired!’ Kondo shouted. ‘Pull! Pull!’
Miraculously the fight seemed to go out of the beast and they hauled in quickly until the reptile was just ten yards from the bank.
‘Keep the tension!’ Kondo urged them as he readied his rifle.
The huge, gnarled head was high out of the water, its mouth open, showing rows of jagged teeth. Ota could see the fraying rope wrapped around its upper jaw and disappearing down its massive throat. The crocodile slid half-up the bank, straining against the rope and panting aggressively. Its jaws gaped and the hunters caught a pungent whiff of rotten flesh on its breath.
‘Shoot the bastard!’ Yano grunted through clenched teeth.
Kondo fired three times before it was still. He ran forward and put two more shots into the skull at point-blank range then sat astride its neck and plunged a bayonet deep into one of the eye sockets. Finally satisfied the animal was dead, he sat back triumphantly, arms raised. ‘Yatta zo!’—We did it!
Exhausted, the others slumped down, still wary of the huge creature. They watched Kondo re-tie the rope firmly around the huge jaws then fling the free end over a sturdy tree branch. ‘We’ll use the half-track as a winch,’ he said confidently. ‘Yano-kun, bring it over.’
In a few minutes the crocodile was suspended over the branch with half of its tail still on the ground.
‘Now for the messy part,’ Kondo informed them. He began to take off his clothes.
Ota and Nagumo looked at each other, then, reluctantly, followed suit. When they were all naked Yano handed each of them a freshly sharpened cleaver.
They stood in a ring around the hanging crocodile and watched Kondo slice off a six-inch strip of gnarled, leathery skin and fat that was nearly half-an-inch thick. ‘Start at the top and work down,’ he instructed. The others started to copy him, but the skin was so tough they could manage only much smaller lengths.
Before long, they were caked in blood and bits of fat and skin. Clouds of flies and mosquitoes swirled around them. Then more crocodiles, attracted by the smell of blood, began to creep up the bank towards them. Twice they had to shoot.
‘You know,’ Ota said trying to clear his throat, ‘I read in King once that crocodiles stopped evolving over a million years ago.’
‘Well,’ replied Nagumo, ‘this sod certainly smells a million years old!’
Kondo grunted in amusement then casually sliced open the beast’s stomach. A flood of intestines, bile, half-digested flesh and bone and the mangled carcass of the dog splattered around their feet. A cloying, stomach-churning stench filled their throats and nostrils. Ota had never smelt anything so vile in his life.
Yano’s eyes bulged, then his cheeks. Arms raised, he shook his head in frantic apology then vomited spectacularly, setting off Nagumo and Ota in turn. The three of them sank on
all fours retching in the blood- and bile-soaked mud. Kondo looked on, laughing uproariously then launched into another folk song as he returned to work.
It was another hour before the crocodile was skinned and butchered. By the end, even Kondo was showing signs of fatigue. Tired and filthy, they drove, still naked, for over a mile along the river-bank to wash in a safer spot.
That night Kondo prepared grilled crocodile steaks with rice and vegetables. He even had soy sauce and sake. The meat was chewy but a very welcome change. ‘Just like chicken,’ he declared with genuine satisfaction. ‘Next time we should try for a younger one!’
Ota, Nagumo and Yano eyed each other in silence then reached for more.
Singapore, Malaya, mid-September 1945
Meg was on the terrace of the Raffles Hotel enjoying a gin and tonic in the recently renamed ‘Shackle Club’. She was sharing a table with a tall, tanned US Navy quartermaster, who was drinking beer. It was late afternoon and the air was clinging.
At the neighbouring tables, groups of thin and wan women were intent on making the best of the bar’s happy hour. They were also casting frequent, malevolent glances at a party of shirtless Japanese repairing the road in front of the hotel. Two very bored-looking Sikh infantrymen were guarding the prisoners.
Meg had met some Indian troops in Europe and had warmed to their determined yet polite manner. She had never understood why they were fighting so far from home. It was the Japanese, though, that fascinated her. They were her first sighting of the recent enemy. She watched as they swung pick-axes and ferried stones and sand. To her surprise, she saw they appeared to be quite willing workers.
Across the table the sailor’s dark eyes followed her gaze. He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to peace on earth and full employment,’ he said sarcastically.
She lifted her glass to his while nodding towards the Japanese. ‘They’re keeping them busy.’
‘Why not? The Japs build good roads. We could use ’em in Texas!’
Meg laughed but was distracted again by the cold looks the Japanese drew from the women on the terrace.
‘So, what,’ the sailor asked trying to keep her attention, ‘do war correspondents do in peacetime, anyway?’
‘Find another war, I suppose,’ Meg replied, far more enthusiastically than she had intended.
‘Is there a war in Java?’
‘My editor says so.’
‘And you want to go?’
‘Yeah.’
He grunted and stood up. ‘Lady, good luck! I’m looking for the quiet type.’ He left without looking back. Meg barely noticed and went back to her guidebook.
Java the Wonderland! Have you not yet visited Java? If not, do so now! Java, the peerless gem in that magnificent Empire of Insulinde, which winds about the equator like a garland of emeralds, is the ideal tropical island.
She had left Berlin for London three weeks previously. With the end of the war, there was no longer a formal requirement for press accreditation from South-East Asia Command but she applied for it anyway. In any case, the only flights into Singapore were on Royal Air Force aircraft, and she thought it would make her life easier with the document-obsessed British.
Eleven buttock-numbing days in converted bombers and transport aircraft had taken her via southern France, Malta, Alexandria and Aden. Twice she lost her seat at the last minute to British officers claiming priority. One, out of habit, had chided her, ‘There’s a war on, Madame.’ In reply she had pointed out that the war had ended and then loudly accused him of queue-jumping. Red-faced, the officer had still taken her place.
As the weather got warmer, she found herself relaxing. After the dusty, grey misery of Berlin and food-rationed London, the novelty of plentiful fresh food was a blissful distraction. She made the most of the trip with bits of sightseeing, eating at restaurants and, for the first time in years, shopping, mainly for cottons and silks. From Aden she had flown to Bombay, Colombo and finally on to Singapore where she had run into a wall of bureaucratic confusion and obfuscation. The British were clearly not interested in helping her reach Java.
Singapore was awash with colour, noise and, she soon noticed, smiles. The Malays and Chinese seemed to have shrugged off the war in just a few weeks. Markets were thriving and shops were well stocked and busy. Children played in the streets and entertainment went on until the early hours. Swept up by it all, she had a stab at an article but abandoned it when she realised her editor would not want to read about happy Malays. Instead, she went looking for a guidebook and maps of Java. That had turned into a quest in itself because the British had apparently bought up everything they could find. Finally, at the fifth second-hand bookshop, she struck gold with a 1923 edition of Come to Java, which contained a fold-out colour map of the island.
Two days later, Meg was at the harbour. A helpful hotel clerk had mentioned to her that a ferry service between Singapore and Batavia was restarting. She decided it was worth a try and arrived at dawn. Java was over five hundred nautical miles to the south. According to her guidebook, the journey would take around forty hours.
The dockside was teeming with sailors, soldiers, labourers and refugees. Freighters of all shapes and sizes, many still in camouflage paint, crammed against the wharfs. Lines of coolies snaked from each vessel. Eventually she found the embarkation point written for her by the hotel clerk. At least twenty other people were waiting for the ferry; all were impoverished-looking labourers, who she discovered were Javanese.
Hours went by but the Javanese remained convinced the ferry was coming. Meg was close to giving up when, just after noon, a battered, rusting steamer chugged its way to the quayside. A tattered Dutch flag hung limply at the stern of the Melchior Treub. She smiled as she recognised the name from her guidebook.
With shouts and laughter the waiting Javanese swarmed aboard. Meg picked up her two small bags and started up the gangplank. A youth wearing a dirty white shirt, khaki shorts and sailor’s cap that was too large for him intercepted her with a sharp shout.
‘Bukan tonlok!’
Meg looked at him and shrugged. ‘What’s your problem, fellah?’ She took another step forward.
The youth held up his hand. ‘Bukan tonlok!’
‘What? Goddamn it!’ She began to thumb through the English-Malay phrases in her guidebook.
A male, Dutch-accented voice made her turn. ‘Excuse me, Madame, he thinks you are Dutch.’ The man was a slim Asian in a tropical suit and a worn panama hat.
‘Oh, I see. So what?’
His eyes were inquisitive, almost playful. ‘The crewman “regrets” that no Dutch are allowed on board.’
‘Then can you tell him I’m an American journalist?’
His surprise showed. Quickly he explained to the youth. At the word ‘American’ the young seaman visibly relaxed and shouted to a man watching them from the wheelhouse. There was a brief discussion among the Javanese.
‘If you don’t mind,’ the man in the panama said politely, ‘the Captain does not read English and has asked me to examine your papers.’
Meg handed over her passport, press card and her British accreditation. The man flicked through the documents, translating aloud for the benefit of the youth. He looked at her quizzically. ‘Miss Graham, would you mind telling me how you knew this ship was sailing today, and from this berth?’
Meg shrugged, ‘I’ve been trying to get to Java for a few days. Mr Darusman, a clerk at my hotel, told me about the ferry.’
‘Ah, Darusman! I see,’ he said suddenly relaxed. He handed back her papers. ‘Thank you, Miss Graham.’
The crewman, now all smiles, stepped aside. From the wheelhouse the captain grinned and raised his peaked cap.
‘I must thank you, Mr?’ Meg asked, offering her hand.
The man took it and doffed his hat to reveal carefully combed thick, dark hair. ‘Doctor Saltan Jarisha at your service.’
Without the hat he looked much younger. Things were not turning out so badly, Meg thought to he
rself. She had met a handsome, mysterious stranger, on a tropical cruise….
Jarisha looked at her admiringly. ‘I must admit that I never expected the company of a lady on this voyage.’
Meg shrugged. ‘Well, there are a few of us around.’
‘I meant that Java is not safe.’
‘That’s why I’m here.’
Another crewman appeared, picked up her bags then waited by a stairwell.
‘I hope we can talk later,’ Meg said.
‘I shall be delighted,’ Jarisha replied, doffing his hat yet again.
Below, the ship smelt of damp and oil. A small, wire-cased safety bulb emitted a dull, off-white light in the long corridor. When the crewman opened a door to a cabin the shaft of daylight from the porthole was almost blinding.
Her cabin, or what was left of it, was stifling and humid. Apart from the built-in wooden bed frame, the room was bare. There was no mattress. Fixtures and fittings had been stripped. Large patches of rotten carpet were worn through to the brown-painted steel floor beneath. She opened a narrow door to discover a mouldy en-suite bathroom and several of the biggest cockroaches she had ever seen. There was no toilet seat and the pan was heavily stained. She grimaced and tried the flush. Nothing happened. With a sigh she closed the door.
For a minute she struggled with the porthole but the catches were encrusted with rust. Frustrated and a little dejected, she sat on the bed. On a whim she decided to cheer herself up by changing from her khaki tunic and trousers into a white cotton skirt and sleeveless blouse. By the time she had finished, she was perspiring. She looked wistfully at the bare wires in the ceiling where there once had been a fan. Then she remembered the advertisement in her guidebook and searched for it again. She read it aloud, in the light from the porthole. ‘Royal Packet Navigation Company vessel, Melchior Treub. A fast, modern twin-screw steamer. Electric lights and luxurious accommodation. Surgeon carried.’
She sighed, feeling sad for the ship. ‘Well, at least there is a doctor on board…’ she said to herself. Then, unable to bear the heat any longer, she reached for a light jacket and went back on deck.