Rogue Raider

by Nigel Barley

  “He’s right,” came a voice from the back, loud with instant outrage. “Lauterbach’s right. My missus is up in town. Let’s get guns and go and fight the Indians. Shoot the raping bastards down like dogs, I say. Teach them to touch our women.” The men started cheering. It was beginning to get dark. Darkness always favours the forming of a mob.

  Lauterbach groaned and clutched his head. “No, no, no,” he cried weakly. “We must keep out of this. Whatever we do we will be damned, don’t you see that? If we attack the Indians, the British will attack us. Our only hope lies in extravagantly doing absolutely nothing.

  Look. How do you think the British will explain all this? Will they seek to find how they came to alienate the loyalty of brave men? No. They will speak of irrational natives running amok. That is how they always explain everything that happens in their colonies. It is a very useful explanation because it asserts that there is nothing to be explained. Natives are just like that, they run amok and there is nothing to be done about it but shoot them like elephants in must. It is a fact of nature. But if we are seen to be involved – no matter how slightly – on either side, this will all become our fault and we too will be shot down – that is – it will reflect gravely on the honour of Germany. I would suggest we gather the dead honourably in one place, German and British together, relock the gate and go to bed.”

  The men slunk away like curs, snarling, feeling cheated. To do nothing was asking too much. To go to bed was scarcely an act of manly courage. So they got out some old German flags and marched around, waving clenched fists and impotently singing “Die Wacht am Rhein.”

  Lauterbach lay awake, hour after hour, sweating and jumping at every sound. Whenever his stomach rumbled it made him start. It was the sepoys coming to drag him off to fling him against the impregnable British forts. It was the British coming to bind him hand and foot, drive him away and hang him after a chortling parody of a trial. It was the Etappe coming to chase him into the hills to suffer and starve till his pointless and miserable death. At midnight, he rose, put on full uniform, slipped an Etappe sausage in his pocket and walked out of the camp, knowing he would never come back. On the moonlit road he met six others similarly wandering off, less a bunch of desperadoes bent on escape than abandoned orphans resigned to seeking their fortunes in a wider world. No agreement was made to travel together. It just happened. In the velvet magic of the moonlight they somehow knew that all the decisions were making themselves and that, for the moment, they were safe.

  The moonlight lasted until three o’clock when a sudden chill wind blew cloud in from the sea and then the lashing rain began. It soaked and wearied their bodies and frightened their minds with the shadows conjured up by the splittering lightning. In the distance they saw lights moving and left the road since either loyal or mutinous troops could prove equally fatal. Miserably, they picked their way through ranks of rubber trees. In the dark they too looked like soldiers. Lauterbach knew the thick undergrowth was the haunt of lethal snakes and that every stumbling footfall in the hissing rain risked death. They wandered for hours in circles till at dawn they reached a Chinese settlement.

  What the Chinese thought as Lauterbach, streaked with mud and rain, wild-eyed and gesticulating, surged into their hut from the darkness will never be known. The riches of Chinese folklore offered a wealth of mythological beings to give him a name. But a dozen pairs of eyes flew up from their mah-jong in terror, chairs were flung back and the table toppled as they screamed and fled. Lauterbach surveyed the damage and then stooped and pocketed up the Straits Settlement dollars scattered on the ground. You never knew when they would come in handy. Then he fished into another hut and extracted a tiny, whimpering Chinese, set him on the ground and said loudly, “Beach, pantai.” A plan had formed in his mind – to find a Malay village with boats and hop across the short sea passage to Dutch territory. The Chinese pointed with a trembling arm but Lauterbach, drove him implacably before them with threats and growls. After ten minutes, they pushed through waist-high razor grass onto a beach of golden sand and crashing surf with little houses and canoes at a distance. Fishermen, then, maybe even smugglers in a small way of business. Lauterbach extracted some of his new-found dollars, pressed them into their guide’s hand, did an imitation of a pouncing tiger, slit his own throat in lurid gesture with his hand and chased the man off wailing. He took great pleasure in being generous in money that was not his own, an act combining as it did all the Protestant virtues.

  The wind was blowing sea-spray in their faces as they crunched over broken coral to the ladders that led up to the houses where phlegmatic Malays were already afoot, gathering their sarongs about their shivering bodies and dousing themselves in cold water. They nodded and smiled as if an early morning visit by a gang of Germans was an everyday occurrence and waved them in to sit on the worn floorplanks. The little house shook in each gust of wind and everything smelled of fish. Tiny, naked children were crawling about inside and they smelled of fish too. To make friends with a man, first make friends with his dog, thought Lauterbach. Since Malays didn’t have dogs, he seized a gurgling child and dandled it approximately on his knee. An old woman with a quid of sirih tucked under her lip came and cackled at him, dripping red saliva like blood. But she came back and offered coffee. The coffee smelled of fish too. The Germans bestowed cigarettes in exchange. It was the first time Lauterbach had really seen his companions of the night.

  There was Diehn, a shipping agent, big and blond, in his early forties and his wiry assistant, Schoenberg. Dedicated to business, Diehn had made money early and a lot of it and had no reason to love either Feldschwein or Lauterbach, for the Etappe and the Emden had been his undoing. At the beginning of the war, the British had left the international businessmen who were the backbone of Singapore largely alone. In those days, wealth bestowed a sort of honorary Britishness. Anyway, Diehn knew most of the important Brits by their first names, rubbed shoulders with them in their own clubs. Since he was the local agent for the British Blue Funnel Line, most of them had business dealings with him too. He it was, who had booked some of the most expensive cargo aboard the Troilus, one of the vessels that Lauterbach had sent to the bottom. Diehn had unwisely made a joke to the customer. “Maybe the Emden will get your cargo.” When it did, a complaint was laid by the insurers, Diehn’s office was searched, accusations of Etappe links were made. Nothing was found for there was nothing to find since Diehn let nothing interfere with business. Then they searched his house and discovered in triumph that his washing line was made of steel wire. It could be used, they alleged, as a wireless aerial for communicating with enemy agents or submarines, though no transmitter was ever found. It was never mentioned that all Diehn’s British neighbours had similar metal washing lines that aroused no adverse comment. But despite his protests he was interned and sent to the camp alongside Lauterbach.

  Then there was Hahn, a tall, easy-going merchant of nothing in particular, the sort who fit well into a war because they have no distinctive shape of their own and like things organised for them. He had tried his luck in all the riches of the islands, bird-nests, gums, rubber, but always found himself hopelessly outmatched by sharp Chinese competition. Instead of ranting of racial injustice he had settled comfortably into the firm of an ancient Chinese towkay and quickly married his plain daughter. Early to bed, early to rise. Then three strapping sailors, Johan, Jensen and Reinhart, all muscle and tattoos. Even their eyebrows had muscles. Last was Thompson, a waif of a lad, just eighteen, who spoke like a stoker but looked like a phtisic poet.

  The headman of the settlement, appeared, flicking wet hair out of his eyes and knotting his sarong, settled quietly on the floor, daintily accepted a proferred cigarette that he lit with a flint and began chatting with Lauterbach in Malay. He spoke very quietly and without gesture in tones of extreme politeness. He might only be a fisherman but he knew courtly etiquette and Lauterbach was moved by the instinctive good manners. He had heard that there were strangers here and he
had come to greet them. He hoped Tuan’s coffee was acceptable but this was a poor house. Tuan must forgive the simple welcome. Could he perhaps do something else for Tuan?

  Lauterbach declared that he sought nothing but the pleasure of seeing this place and meeting these fine people and their great leader. The headman smiled and bowed. But there was indeed, one matter – a very small matter – that he might perhaps make bold to mention in case his new friend knew someone who might be able to help with this difficulty.

  Indeed Tuan should not be shy, for – who knew? The headman smiled and looked coyly away into a corner with his soft brown eyes. It would bring great joy to help Tuan in any reasonable way.

  Then he would mention it. These Dutch gentlemen required, for complicated reasons, to pass to the Dutch side of the water, to Great Karimon Island. There was a slight irregularity of papers. The British made such a fuss about these small matters but between sensible people such things surely could be arranged.

  The headman nodded and exhaled smoke, thinking hard. Yes he too suffered in this matter of papers. It was the same for everyone. Did fish carry papers? No. Why then should fishermen? Perhaps he knew a man who might help Tuan but a certain risk was involved. The British made life difficult for everyone because of the war. If these gentlemen were found in his boat, it would be confiscated and how then might he earn his living? They would be punished and times were already hard. He had a wife and children to take care of. He was sure Tuan understood.

  Lauterbach dug in his pocket and straightened out the tangled notes of Straits dollars he had seized in the Chinese hut and turned them into a fat wad. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. He passed it over, politely, with both hands. He had no idea whether this was a fortune or a paltry sum to a Malay fisherman but the man nodded simply, pocketed it up without counting or comment and despatched a snot-nosed child to fetch someone else. A few minutes later they were back under the house in the sea-mist with another young Malay, packing themselves among nets and tarpaulins into two black sailing canoes with outriggers. Lauterbach splashed out into the sloshing waves and clambered aboard, nearly upsetting them with his bulk. He jammed his body in so tightly between the gunwales that he could scarcely move. Whenever he breathed the sides creaked. The boats were shoved off to bob high in the water and then there came a shout from the child who slid down the house-ladder excitedly and waded out to whisper through the mist into his father’s ear. The headman looked at them without bitterness and coiled the line fixed to his anchor.

  “You German,” he said laughing, allowing a wave to lift him and drop him back on the sand. So the British were looking for them and the news of their flight had already reached this far. Would he turn them in? Perhaps soldiers were already on their way. Should they make a fight of it right now and just take the boats by force? There were seven of them and only two small Malays to stop them. They were unarmed, at most they would have the odd knife tucked away in their sarongs. Lauterbach could see the sailors had grasped the situation and were ready for anything. He cast an eye around for a weapon but there was nothing to hand in the boat. It would have to be a rock. That one there with the rough edge. The headman came closer and Lauterbach stiffened and let his arm drop casually towards the rock.

  “You German,” he said again quietly. “Very dangerous. Much trouble in town. But I promise you and so I keep my promise. One thing only. You give me that.” He gestured towards Lauterbach’s Emden cap badge, as a crackle of distant gunfire echoed across from the town. “You give me that.”

  Book Three

  WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE

  Chapter Eight

  Your Excellency,

  This is just a card to let you know that we have arrived safely in Padang (Sumatra – but perhaps you know that having been to an excellent school) after a superb and refreshing cruise amongst these beautiful islands. You need have no further concern for our wellbeing. Thank you for looking after us and putting us up in your large and luxurious residence in Singapore. Our only regret is that we remained as guests on your hands for so long but we are now to be considered permanently non-resident members of the Tanglin Barracks Club. Be assured that whenever circumstances permit we shall be delighted to return the favour and are assured that we shall offer you our hospitality in the near future when Singapore comes under German rule after the war. Please thank our attendants, the 5th Light Infantry, for all their kindnesses and the truly excellent and unforgettable send-off they gave us. In the rush, certain items of laundry were left behind. Would it be too much trouble for you to take them into your care until we meet again?

  With warm affection,

  Lieutenant Julius Lauterbach

  The card bore a hand-coloured picture of the main street of Padang, in the Dutch East Indies, showing a peaceful mix of strolling natives in sarongs and mems in high feathery hats. It was a lesson to the messy British in Dutch neatness. He turned the card over and wrote the address in a large, slightly clumsy hand, “His Excellency the Governor, Sir Arthur Young, Government House, Singapore.”

  He shouldn’t have done it of course. It was certainly a mistake, childish but also irresistible. Some mistakes were too much fun to make only once and, God knows, he had had little enough fun of late. It was too much to hope that the card would arrive uncensored on a silver salver at the breakfast table of Sir Arthur and cause an apoplectic besmirching of the gubernatorial white tunic with coughed-up toast and marmalade. Yet it would reach him finally and it would rankle like a starched collar. Lauterbach knew all about rankling. There, on the table was something that rankled and would go on rankling. It was a poster bearing his picture, or rather an artist’s impression of Lauterbach. It had little piggy eyes, jowls which he was sure he did not have and a fat smear of facial hair about a leering mouth. The overall effect was of a mentally impaired sexual delinquent. But what really rankled was underneath. “Wanted dead or alive, for treacherously fomenting disaffection amongst His Majesty’s troops. Reward £10,000.” He had encountered it in Padang and copies were posted everywhere. So, it was as he had predicted. The British had settled on the version of events most convenient to themselves, blaming everything on foreign intrigue and now he was safe nowhere in the East. There would always be someone after him, keen to lay hands on that reward. After all, £10,000 was a lot of money. He was almost tempted to hand himself in and claim it. Now every British sea-captain and trader, every warship and merchant vessel would see him as their walking pension till the end of his days. He gummed the stamp gloomily in place, frankly not bothered if they had to pay an extra charge at the other end because of inadequate postage. He was doomed.

  It had not been the pleasant cruise he had claimed to H.E. Governor Singapore, in fact, it had been a right pig of a journey that often found him longing for the comfort and safety of the prisoner-of-war camp where three square meals a day and a soft bed were guaranteed. The first stage in the canoe had been well enough. They were all so tired that sleep had come easily. Lauterbach had been dimly aware of being splashed by bow waves and disturbed by the constant retching of Schoenberg but as long as the retching and the splashing were separate things they were not unduly troublesome. He had turned over to feel the comforting, hugging pressure of his money pocket against his paunch and slept. Discomfort came the next day with the empty heat and lack of water as he gnawed surreptitiously, under the tarpaulin, on his Etappe sausage. It was not until sunset that day that they finally reached the safety of Dutch territory but freedom did not look, at first sight, very attractive. The shore was an unrelieved dark green, a stinking tangle of malarial swamps and mangrove roots that snuffed out all life. Dark green, Lauterbach saw at once, was the colour of despair. After an hour’s splashing knee-deep in diarrhoeal mud they had finally found a miserable fisherman’s house where the owner’s dismay was converted into joy by the sight of silver dollars.

  “Where is the town?” inquired Lauterbach, pointing east, west, opening his hands in enquiry. The owner looked puzzl
ed. “This is the town,” he said. They dined on rice eaten with unwashed hands straight from the pan before collapsing again in sleep.

  “Should we post a guard and take turns?” Diehn asked him, yawning, already semi-comatose. Diehn was a fusspot. Did he think they were still at war here? As far as Lauterbach was concerned, the war lay behind him in Singapore.

  “What’s the worst that can happen? We might get our throats cut in our sleep but can you think of a more comfortable place to get your throat cut?” There was a protruding knothole sticking into his back. They did not bother with a guard.

  The next day brought more rice, but now they had established that the main settlement lay on the other side of the island. The others were keen to be rid of the boats – anything was better than another day on board – and decided to walk across. Lauterbach had seen something of jungle paths before, roots to trip you, snakes to bite you, thorns to rip your flesh. No thank you. He would go by boat. He was comfily enjoying his third glass of gin with the Dutch chief of police when they arrived, bloodied and exhausted, digging leeches out of their boots, to find the gin was finished. Dumpy, beaming Mr Herman rattled out orders over one shoulder to his Malay servant.

  “I was just explaining,” he sighed, “that the District Officer is away on a tour of duty and will not return for several days. There is a case in one of the interior villages involving smuggling and women – alway here it is smuggling and women, sometimes smuggling of women. In the meantime, I can settle you in the resthouse. I cannot, as I explained to your leader …” they transferred their sour gazes from the glasses of tepid water being set before them to Lauterbach’s face “I cannot deal with such a major matter in his absence, but I can assure you you will find the resthouse quite comfortable.”