As white, fluffy clouds and a blue ocean passed by far below, he could only think of her, of that beautiful young woman who had so captivated him what seemed like a lifetime ago.
They had been apart for so long now, and so much had happened since then. He knew he was changed. Would Fay be the same girl he had been dreaming of, longing for, all these years?
In his heart he knew she couldn’t be.
Both of them, like so many of their generation had had their youth cruelly and violently taken from them by a terrible war: and many their very lives – like George.
His mouth was so dry he couldn’t even swallow, but tears blurred his sight. He raised his goggles, passed the back of his gloved hand across his face to clear them.
Automatically, he scanned the sky for any sign of black dots.
It was still hard to believe that it was all over.
He checked his watch.
One hour to go.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fay and all the others were now in the hands of an organization called RAPWI, which stood for the Rehabilitation of Allied Prisoners of War and Internees.
She had been moved to a large commandeered house near the city centre where there was better medical care. It had previously been a Japanese officer’s happy home.
In the drive down, through almost deserted streets, Fay had looked out at the peeling paint, the wrecked buildings, the sky with kites lazily swinging around in circles in the currents of air. Even in the car you could detect the stink of broken drains. It was true, she thought, defeat does have a smell.
The jungle had grown around buildings that had been blasted in an act of hopeless defence all those years ago, the branches entering shattered walls to appear again in the roofless tops, curling over charred beams.
Weirdly, other homes were almost as if they had been left for the weekend.
The cricket club still stood, surrounded by rutted and yellowing greens, the administrative buildings across the padang, silent and abandoned looking.
Only the flame trees and jacoranda had added a colourful touch of the life of old.
She still felt as if she was in a dream – within the nightmare – and would wake up in it again.
With the aid of walking sticks she could get under a shower, but when she looked down at her body, at her yellowy scarred flesh, shrivelled breasts and protruding bones, she started to cry. Tom would find her hideous. She wondered when they would be united – or even if he was still alive. The letter from him was months old.
The RAPWI people had a lot to do, what with the thousands of exprisoners from up country joining those already there. Transports were waiting in the shipping lanes, but it was a massive undertaking. Already the troops, with the almost mandatory sense of humour that had helped them, and the amazing 14th Army survive and ultimately win, had dubbed it, ‘Retain All Prisoners of War Indefinitely’.
So she would not be a priority; she had been told so because of her poor health.
In fact, now the time had come, she was afraid – afraid of what she would find with her freedom. The world had changed, and so had she. It was time to face reality.
And that was the one thing Fay feared more than anything she’d been through in the past four years. Because what had kept her going was the thought of being with Tom again.
And now she was terrified of that prospect.
So much so, that she’d asked the RAPWI not to reveal her whereabouts. Not yet.
Perhaps not ever….
Tom had flown into Tengah airfield, and into an unholy row. He cared nothing about threats to court-martial him, they could stick the bloody service up their jacksy.
Having checked into the mess he clipped on his sidearm – a reflex from the days of up country airstrips – and got a jeep and a driver from the pool.
‘Where to, Sir?’
‘Changi Jail.’
As they went through the outskirts of the city they passed working parties of Japanese prisoners, running in squads, naked save for their boots, peaked caps and flapping loin cloths. How fallen were the ferocious, savage warriors of Nippon!
If somebody had stopped him and asked him to shoot one of them, he would have done so without a second’s thought.
Tom realized he was damaged, de-humanized by an experience of a hell on earth and might never be the same again; the world, his world, had lost its innocence.
When they got there, Tom looked up, aghast at the sight of the huge block with hundreds of tiny windows, each one marking a cell.
Had Fay been languishing there for years? It didn’t bear thinking about.
He approached a temporary office in a hut and found a civilian who looked up from a desk blasted by a portable electric fan. Piles of documents were held down by various weights. Despite all that, he still had huge black sweat marks under his arms and up his back, and obviously hadn’t been long out from Blighty.
Testily he looked up. ‘Can I help you?’
Tom told him he was looking for his wife Fay Roxham.
The man reached for a pile of papers and began to work through them.
‘Ah, here we are.’
He examined one, frowning.
‘She was not well – had been interrogated by the Kemp-Tai – that’s the military police – been transferred to a medical facility.’
The shock was as if he had been kicked in the stomach.
Despite the heat, Tom felt such a coldness he shivered. ‘Is she all right? What did they do to her?’
The man shook his head.
‘I have no details – but it seems she was near death’s door when they returned her to Changi, that’s why she needs to be where she is.’
Tom could hardly breathe. ‘Where is she?’
The man shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to say.’
‘I’m her husband – where is she?’
‘I’m sorry—’
The man’s eyes bulged as Tom released the clip on the flap of his holster and drew out his service revolver.
There was something in the wing commander’s eyes – he’d seen it before. After what they’d been through a lot of them out here were deranged.
Hurriedly he scrambled for a pen, began to write.
‘I shouldn’t do this, but seeing you’re—’
Tom snatched the paper away, glanced at the address.
‘Thank you.’
He turned on his heel. At the jeep he showed it to the driver. ‘You know where this is?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Take me there.’
He swung into the front seat and looked back. The man was holding the phone, but dropped it like a hot potato when he saw Tom looking at him.
‘And put your foot down.’
On the journey Tom was in a state of fear. Fay, his Fay. Tortured. He felt as if his head was going to explode.
Fay had walked, using her two sticks, out on to the veranda and settled herself into a wicker chair. One of the staff got her a cold drink. She closed her eyes, thinking of a time that seemed so long ago. She recalled the first moment she had seen him, playing the saxophone at that dance, of the weird shiver that had gone through her, and the strange urge to fend him off. It was as though something was telling her that this was the one – that she was no longer alone in the world, but would never be completely free again.
All so long ago, so far away, another time, another place….
She dozed, feeling immeasurably sad.
They had been so in love….
Tom leapt out of the jeep, looked up at the lawns to the long low house set among the trees. Frightened by what he might find, he walked, less resolutely, up the winding path to the veranda, then up the step to the wide open double doors. He entered the cool large lobby, the fans in the ceiling whirling almost silently above the marble floor.
‘Can I help you, Sir?’
The young nurse eyed up the sun-tanned wing commander with medal ribbons.
‘Yes. I bel
ieve my wife is here?’
‘And the name, Sir?’
‘Mrs Roxham.’
‘Oh she’s out on the veranda – just by the doors. You must have passed her.’
He shook his head. ‘No, there was only an elderly lady asleep….’
The nurse watched the agony on his face as realization dawned. He turned and slowly, fearfully, retraced his steps, his chukha boots making no sound on the marble. In the doorway he looked down on her, head bowed in sleep, at the woman he loved more dearly than life itself, and realized just how nearly he’d lost her.
Fay came out of her dreaming, fluttering her eyes in the brightness. A man was standing over her, a lean handsome RAF Officer, a pilot.
‘Yes?’
He took his cap off and knelt down, gently taking her hands in his.
‘Hello, Fay, I’ve come to take you home.’
OBITUARY
NATIONAL PRESS 2007
Wing Commander Tom ‘Rocky’ Roxham
Wing Commander Tom ‘Rocky’ Roxham, who has died aged 88 was one of the RAF’s most colourful and outstanding pilots in both the European and South East Asia theatres during WWII.
He began his war as a sergeant pilot during the Battle of France, flying Hurricanes, where he shot down two Stuka Dive Bombers. During the Battle of Britain he claimed a further ME 109 before he himself had to bale out, landing dramatically on a station roof and breaking both a leg and an arm.
On his recovery he was commissioned as a Pilot Officer and rejoined his squadron, carrying out aggressive fighter sweeps over Northern France and Occupied Europe. During this period he was awarded a DFC and later a DSO for inspired leadership. He became known for his superb shooting skills developed on the moors and estuaries of Northern England and Scotland.
In the European Theatre he had a final total of eight enemy aircraft destroyed – six of them ME109s.
With the fall of Singapore he volunteered for South East Asia, spending the rest of the war on Hurricanes and latterly P47 Thunderbolts giving close support to the 14th Army.
It was here that he earned the epithet ‘Rocky’, and a reputation for being as hard as nails and a ruthless fighter who gave no quarter.
He caused some consternation when he flew unauthorized to Singapore on its liberation, to find his wife, who had been an internee at the infamous Changi Jail.
After the war Roxham discovered that an Australian colleague, who was killed in the final months of the fighting in Burma, had left him his share in the family copper mine in Western Australia. Subsequently he became the sole owner and one of the wealthiest men in post-war Britain.
In memory of his comrade he founded the George Hawksley Foundation for the families of WWII Aircrew.
He fully refurbished Codrington Hall near Cirencester, his wife’s family seat, which was in a state of near-terminal disrepair, turning it into a warm and comfortable home which became famous for its parties.
But Roxham never forgot his humble roots and by 1972 was disenchanted with life in Britain. He moved to New Zealand, settling in Devonport near Auckland.
With his huge wealth, Tom Roxham, a pre-war railway policeman, built his own railway for some fifteen miles through rolling countryside.
He bought, refitted, and shipped out two steam locomotives from the Western Region waiting to be broken up for scrap, together with several coaches, and could be seen working as a ticket collector on what came to be known as the Cotswold Line.
His wife, whom he taught to fly, pre-deceased him by one month. He is survived by two daughters, adopted when it was feared that Fay Roxham could not conceive after her wartime experiences, and a natural son and daughter.
By the Same Author
The Homosaur
Child of Vodyanoi
(The Nightmare Man)
Genesis II
Beneath Us the Stars
Under John Bedford
Moment in Time
Operation Trigeminal
The Generals Died Together
The Titron Madness
The Nemesis Concerto
BBC TV Production
The Nightmare Man
Copyright
© David Wiltshire 2007
First published in Great Britain 2007
This edition 2012
ISBN 978 0 7090 9932 1 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9933 8 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9934 5 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 8298 9 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of David Wiltshire to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Enduring Passions Page 28