In the Mouth of the Tiger

by Lynette Silver

  But it was already too wide to jump, even I could see that.

  From then on everything happened in slow motion. The boatswain ran down the gangway, seeming to take an age. He reached the end and stretched out his arm just as Denis leapt. For aeons Denis was in mid-air, and then he was springing jauntily up the gangway, resetting his cap as if he made desperate pier-head jumps every day of his life.

  He found us much, much later as the Empire Star lay at anchor for the night, still in Singapore Harbour and waiting for daylight to navigate the minefields. He found us by the rail on the top deck, waiting for him. I knew he would look for us there because that had been our favourite spot on the Cathay. He took me in his arms gently, as if I was fragile, and I pressed my cheek against his collar.

  ‘I hoped you were on board,’ he said. ‘But I had no way of knowing. It was sheer torture. But it must have been worse for you, not knowing where I’d got to. I only received orders to join Empire Star this morning.’

  I didn’t say anything but smiled into the darkness. It was the first time in my life that I had known something that Denis hadn’t. Despite my doubts I had known, deep down in my soul, that what Archdeacon Graham-White had said had been the truth and that Denis would be coming with us.

  We put the boys to bed on the floor of my cabin, then sat with our backs to a stanchion on the top deck, talking quietly and smoking. Behind us Singapore was a black jumble of shapes amongst which fires glowed and occasionally flared. The smell of smoke was all-pervading.

  We talked about the children for a while, and about our prospects tomorrow. ‘Why are we still in harbour?’ I asked. ‘If I were the captain I’d be making a dash for it. We could be a hundred miles away by daylight.’

  ‘The light buoy is out,’ Denis said. ‘The Japs sank it this afternoon. It marked the beginning of the swept channel between number one and number two minefields. Without it we can’t take a bearing. If we made a guess and guessed wrong, we’d plough into a mine.’

  ‘People are saying we should still risk it,’ I said. ‘They say the Japs are bound to catch us in the open tomorrow, and that will be far more dangerous than the off-chance of hitting a mine.’

  ‘People are wrong,’ Denis said flatly. ‘If we struck a mine we’d go down in minutes. There are over two thousand people on board and most of them are down below. If we went under we’d lose them all.’

  I sighed. Of course Denis knew what he was talking about, but I still couldn’t help feeling that we were wasting precious time. It went against the grain to do nothing when every turn of the screw would have meant we’d be further away from danger when daylight came. But I suppose that is the burden of command, to make the right decision even if it does go against the grain.

  A figure emerged out of the night, peering down at Denis. It was the young, pale-faced soldier who had led the Australian boarding party. He squatted down beside us.

  ‘I saw you earlier on the bridge,’ he said to Denis. ‘I was trying to get to the Captain, but they wouldn’t let me get anywhere near. I insisted my fellows stay on board against his orders and I’m not sure if he’s forgiven me.’

  Denis grinned in the darkness. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that,’ he said. ‘Your lot has guns and knows how to use them. I think they will be more than appreciated tomorrow.’

  The soldier shrugged. ‘I did what I thought was best for my men,’ he said. ‘Our unit doesn’t exist anymore. It was a shambles. We had received no orders so when I saw a number of our chaps already on board, I rounded up whoever I could and we joined them. Beats waiting around to be killed or put in the bag by the Japs.’

  Denis gave him a cigarette and he sat with us for a while, smoking in silence. Then he cleared his throat. ‘The crew have refused us rations, you know. I didn’t press the point, but the blokes are starving. D’you reckon you could get word to the skipper that we’ll fight better tomorrow with some food in our bellies?’

  Denis rose to his feet and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Let’s go down to the galley and see what we can organise,’ he said. He returned half an hour later, looking thoughtful. ‘They seem decent enough chaps, and they really have had the dickens of a time. I think I might have done the same thing in the circumstances.’

  ‘I think you’re being too soft on them,’ I said. ‘They’re saying that they shot an English naval officer getting on board. Apparently he tried to stop them and one of the Australians shot him.’

  Denis looked at me levelly. ‘Who are saying that, Norma? You were there. I was there. No officer was shot. It’s those confounded Chinese Whispers at work.’

  ‘They might have shot him earlier,’ I said tentatively, but Denis snorted gently.

  ‘Believe the evidence of your own eyes,’ he said. He looked at his watch, then reached across and took me gently in his arms. ‘I’m on duty on the bridge in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Dog watch, for my sins. Then I’ll kip down in the wardroom. I might not be able to see much of you tomorrow, darling. We’re all going to be a trifle busy. Look after yourself and the boys, won’t you?’

  He got to his feet and I got up with him. ‘Take care,’ I said a little desperately. And then, remembering our code, I gave him a little push. ‘Go off and play battleships with your navy friends if you must. But if we all end up in the drink tomorrow the boys and I will know precisely whom to blame.’

  Against all odds, I slept like a baby for the rest of that night. I was vaguely aware of the engines starting, and then that we were underway, but I could not rouse myself. I suppose the body has its own imperatives and mine needed sleep. Both to get over the past two days, and to prepare for the next twenty-four hours.

  Tony finally shook me awake, shouting the news that we were moving. My watch told me it was just after six. I looked out the cabin window to see Singapore still burning through the haze. It lay five or six miles away across a flat sea dotted with numerous small craft fleeing with us, and my mind went to those we had left behind. Catherine Koh, in the home she had turned into a memorial to her beloved Robert, waiting for the Kempeitai. Chu Lun and Amah, custodians of an empty house that had been the setting for all my dreams. The penghulu at Mata Ikan, sitting on his atap-covered verandah, working out his words of welcome for the first Japanese patrol to arrive at his village. John Dalley, who had told me his duty was to stay with the men whom he had recruited for Dalforce and who would now be high on the Kempeitai’s death list.

  Would it have been better if we had stayed? Denis and I were to ask ourselves this over and over in the years to come. It wasn’t a question, at the time, of the brave staying and the weak running away. Heaven knows, anyone who left Singapore by sea in the island’s last days faced incredible odds. Hundreds of ships were sunk in ‘Bomb Alley’, and even those that reached the Banka Straits risked being torpedoed in the Java Sea.

  At the time it was the ones who ran who were regarded as heroes, because they had taken on the Japs and won. Much later, stories of the horrors inflicted on those who had remained behind, after Singapore surrendered on 15 February, began to trickle back to Australia and impacted powerfully on public opinion. The whole issue became surrounded by a strange kind of moral ambiguity. Many people, particularly if they had friends or relatives in the Japanese POW camps, began to think of those who had left the island as having abandoned their companions.

  The new perception ruined several careers, perhaps the most important being that of General Gordon Bennett, commander of the Australian forces in Malaya. Bennett had escaped two hours after the surrender. Instead of being hailed a hero for bringing back vital information on the jungle-fighting and infiltration tactics used by the Japanese, he was shunned by some members of the military establishment on his arrival home for abandoning his men. Although Bennett was promoted to lieutenant-general, he was criticised by a number of senior Staff Officers, men who were still annoyed by his outspoken pre-war comments about Australia’s lack of war readiness.

  More cruelly, the Aus
tralian nurses who left Singapore under orders, and who had covered themselves with glory in numerous running fights to escape the Japanese air force, were criticised on their return for deserting their patients. Despite the casualties they suffered and the medals they won, many of them were actually sent white feathers.

  But all that was for the future. On this hot, hazy morning we were setting out to do battle with a ruthless enemy who commanded the sea on which we sailed and the air above us. For a while we were protected from air attack by the heavy haze, but we had just cleared the Durian Straits when a reconnaissance plane appeared, high above us. I realised immediately the significance of that little silver shape, and felt my heart sink.

  We did not have long to wait. Just after ten o’clock, a large formation of dive-bombers appeared, droning towards us from the north-east. Even the children ceased their play and an awful silence descended on the ship. We had become all too familiar with what to expect.

  Our ship was not alone on the flat, burnished surface of the sea. Our enforced wait in Singapore Harbour had enabled us to join a small but fairly powerful convoy heading for Batavia. There was the cruiser HMS Durban, the destroyer HMS Danae, and an armed former merchant vessel, HMS Kedah. Off to our starboard was another cargo-passenger ship, and as she turned and the morning sun glinted on her superstructure, I saw with a warm feeling of familiarity that she was the Gorgon. Surely, I thought, nothing terrible could happen to us in this strong and friendly company.

  The first bombs fell well clear of the Empire Star, shooting up huge pillars of water all around the Kedah and the Gorgon. I was watching both ships through the cabin window, and saw them suddenly obscured by fragments of rainbow as sunlight caught the fine spray thrown up by the bombs. They looked beautiful, like ghostly vessels in a Turner painting. But then the bombs were falling around us too, the concussion from the explosions making the whole ship vibrate.

  The first attack lasted a bit over an hour. It was indescribable – an hour of fear, uncertainty and noise, punctuated by the muffled screaming of dying and injured men. Time after time the ship shuddered as bombs tore into her thin steel structure, and on each occasion I grabbed the boys and held them tight. I did not hold them close to protect them – I knew how futile that gesture would be – but because I wanted to be holding them when death came and put an end to the terror.

  But the Empire Star was not taking her punishment lying down. As a Defensively Equipped Merchant Ship, Empire Star was well armed and provided with Royal Navy gunners. On top of that, she had many trained, armed and desperate soldiers on board – including the Australians who had come aboard on their own initiative. Bren guns chattered, machine-guns rattled, and at least one Hotchkiss coughed. Our starboard Hotchkiss brought down one enemy plane, and another had poured smoke as it broke off its attack.

  There was heroism. At the height of the bombing, with shrapnel and bullets whistling everywhere, an Australian soldier manning the ship’s rear machine-gun was badly wounded. With no thought for their own safety, two Australian Army nurses, Margaret Anderson and Veronica Torney, left their cover and ran to the wrecked turret. As they lifted the limp and bleeding man to the deck the planes turned for another strafing run. Without hesitation Sister Anderson threw herself across the wounded gunner in an attempt to protect him from further injury as the bullets slammed and ricocheted around them. The aircraft then peeled off, allowing him to be dragged to safety. After some basic instruction from an extremely junior crewmember, who took advantage of the situation to fire off a few rounds himself before being hunted below by the chief steward, another Australian volunteer took over the gun.

  And then it was all over – at least for now.

  ‘Can we have breakfast?’ Tony asked with the irrepressible spirit of the young. Denis had told me to keep everyone in the cabin and I was tempted to refuse, but one of the other women sharing the cabin clapped her hands together determinedly. ‘A very good idea, youngster. Let’s all try and get some grub while the going is good.’ She was a square-faced Scot, a no-nonsense woman who immediately grabbed her boisterous four-year-old twins by the ears and led the way to the dining room.

  The dining room was further along the ship, on the deck below ours. As we scurried down the gangway we saw that many others had got the same idea. People were appearing from everywhere, some sensibly carrying trays to load up for their companions. In the small dining room the cooks were doing their best. Vast trays of scrambled egg had been spread out on the tables and a constant queue was being directed through the room. As each person approached the tables they were given a bowl and generous dollops of the reconstituted egg.

  It was not haute cuisine, but it was hot and there was plenty of it.

  We’d just been served when the ship’s siren boomed, announcing another raid, and we hurried for the illusory safety of our cabin. On the way we passed the tiny passenger lounge. It had been turned into a dressing station and through the windows opening onto the deck I glimpsed neatly uniformed Australian nurses busy with boxes of medical supplies. One or two waved gaily to the children, and it was incredibly comforting to see their smiles, and their air of calm competence.

  This time the attack was pressed home with fanatical determination, and it lasted well over three hours. Waves of heavy bombers and dive-bombers – we were told later that over fifty planes had been involved – took their turns in attempting to destroy the convoy. They concentrated on the most attractive targets, the Durban and the Empire Star.

  We talk sometimes about such-and-such being ‘the worst time of one’s life’. I am cautious of such words because we never know the future and I was to experience worse times in the years to come. But at the time, those three and a half hours in our crowded cabin, with the children’s faces white with fear and convinced in our hearts that each moment was our last, seemed unsurpassably dreadful. On the bridge, Captain Capon was doing an incredible job, throwing the ship around like a Spitfire in a dogfight so that time after time the bombs fell short, or fell just over. But all we knew in our cabin was that the ship jerked and spun, trembling with concussion from the constant near hits, and that the air was thick with screaming shrapnel.

  At a few minutes past one in the afternoon the Empire Star should have died. A pattern of bombs straddled the ship, exploding together with such tremendous force that the vessel was literally lifted out of the water. In our cabin time stopped as we seemed to go up and up forever. And then down. Further and further down we went until I was sure the ship would just keep on dropping, its bottom blown out, until we hit the seabed.

  One of the children began to cry.

  And then a hard thud as the hull crashed deep into the water and the ship levelled out. Down in the holds the concussion was so severe that it burst eardrums and sent hundreds of people flying, injuring scores. But against all common sense the Empire Star survived. The engines resumed their muffled throb, the guns on the decks resumed their chatter, and in our cabin time recommenced.

  It was at that point that the square-faced Scottish woman said something that I will remember until the day I die. ‘We’re all pals here, aren’t we?’ she said, reaching out and touching each of us in turn. ‘You know, I really wouldn’t be anywhere else for quids.’ Her name was Christine Maclean – the name comes back to me after all the years – and the memory of her companionship and bright courage burns through the blackness like a flame.

  That was the last raid we were to experience, but of course we weren’t to know that. The long afternoon passed, hours of tortured anticipation of disaster mixed with ecstasy that we were still alive, and then the sky began to turn pale salmon pink and the flat sea indigo, and we were safe. As we motored through the late afternoon one could almost hear the ship sighing with relief. People gathered in little groups, shaking hands, patting each other on the back. Someone, somewhere, laughed gently, an infinitely comforting sound. I stood on the deck outside our cabin breathing deeply, saying ‘thank you’ to God in my mind, and
then beginning to worry about Denis.

  He didn’t come, so I went looking for him. The whole vessel was a shambles and I stumbled past wrecked cabins, the shattered remains of a gun position still wet with blood, and through a dark labyrinth of corridors stinking of cordite.

  I reached a ladder marked ‘Bridge’ but they stopped me going up, an armed sailor barring my way with his rifle. I think that was the worst moment of all. I had no strength to insist, none even to explain my quest, and so I just stood there mute, sagging against the wall of the companionway for support. And then, miraculously, Denis was by my side, a spray of dried blood across one shoulder of his uniform, but smiling and alive.

  We stood together by the rail, clinging together as the darkening sea slid past. I wanted so much to cry. With relief that we were all alive. With sorrow for all those who had died – on the Empire Star and back in Singapore. For the loss of the lovely world which we had taken for granted and which had been so brutally torn from us. But of course I didn’t. To weep would have demeaned all those on board who had lost so much more than we had.

  ‘You took your own sweet time to beat off a few measly Japs, didn’t you?’ I asked. ‘I thought you said it would be a piece of cake.’

  Many – the exact number will never be known – had died during the day, and some of the dead were buried at sunset. During the heat of action, many others had been pushed over the side, but now there was no need for haste and there was time for ceremony. Prayers were said for the safe delivery of the ship and for the souls of the departed. As the bodies, weighted in their canvas shrouds, were consigned to the deep beneath the flag of the Empire for which they had given their lives, we sang the well-known hymn ‘Abide with Me.’

  The next morning dawned overcast, and we steamed all day through a pearl-grey world in which the sea merged indistinguishably with the sky. It meant that we were hidden from the Japanese bombers, and all over the ship there were little celebrations of relief. But it was relief mixed with a new anxiety. It was known that Japanese submarines were in the area and people were often to be found staring out at the flat grey sea, looking out for torpedo tracks. Occasionally someone would see something and shouts would go up and I’d find my heart thumping as I looked about desperately for the boys. But it would be a seagull taking off or water breaking on a drifting coconut frond, and there would be raucous laughter and relief.