by Ruskin Bond
‘No, let’s race home!’ shouted Sono. ‘The bombs won’t fall here.’
But he was wrong. The planes flew in very low. Looking up for a moment, I saw the sun blotted out by the sinister shape of a Jap fighter-bomber. We pedalled furiously; but we had barely covered fifty yards when there was a terrific explosion on our right, behind some houses. The shock sent us spinning across the road. We were flung from our cycles. And the cycles, still propelled by the blast, crashed into a wall.
I felt a stinging sensation in my hands and legs, as though scores of little insects had bitten me. Tiny droplets of blood appeared here and there on my flesh. Sono was on all fours, crawling beside me, and I saw that he too had the same small scratches on his hands and forehead, made by tiny shards of flying glass.
We were quickly on our feet, and then we began running in the general direction of our homes. The twisted cycles lay forgotten on the road.
‘Get off the street, you two!’ shouted someone from a window; but we weren’t going to stop running until we got home. And we ran faster than we’d ever run in our lives.
My father and Sono’s parents were themselves running about the street, calling for us, when we came rushing around the corner and tumbled into their arms.
‘Where have you been?’
‘What happened to you?’
‘How did you get those cuts?’
All superfluous questions; but before we could recover our breath and start explaining, we were bundled into our respective homes. My father washed my cuts and scratches, dabbed at my face and legs with iodine—ignoring my yelps—and then stuck plaster all over my face.
Sono and I had had a fright, and we did not venture far from the house again.
That night my father said: ‘I think we’ll be able to leave in a day or two.’
‘Has another ship come in?’
‘No.’
‘Then how are we going? By plane?’
‘Wait and see, lad. It isn’t settled yet. But we won’t be able to take much with us—just enough to fill a couple of travelling bags.’
‘What about the stamp collection?’ I asked.
My father’s stamp collection was quite valuable and filled several volumes.
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to leave most of it behind,’ he said. ‘Perhaps Mr Hartono will keep it for me, and when the war is over—if it’s over—we’ll come back for it.’
‘But we can take one or two albums with us, can’t we?’
‘I’ll take one. There’ll be room for one. Then if we’re short of money in Bombay, we can sell the stamps.’
‘Bombay? That’s in India. I thought we were going back to England.’
‘First we must go to India.’
The following morning I found Sono in the garden, patched up like me, and with one foot in a bandage. But he was as cheerful as ever and gave me his usual wide grin.
‘We’re leaving tomorrow,’ I said.
The grin left his face.
‘I will be sad when you go,’ he said. ‘But I will be glad too, because then you will be able to escape from the Japs.’
‘After the war, I’ll come back.’
‘Yes, you must come back. And then, when we are big, we will go round the world together. I want to see England and America and Africa and India and Japan. I want to go everywhere.’
‘We can’t go everywhere.’
‘Yes, we can. No one can stop us!’
We had to be up very early the next morning. Our bags had been packed late at night. We were taking a few clothes, some of my father’s business papers, a pair of binoculars, one stamp album, and several bars of chocolate. I was pleased about the stamp album and the chocolates, but I had to give up several of my treasures—favourite books, the gramophone and records, an old Samurai sword, a train set and a dartboard. The only consolation was that Sono, and not a stranger, would have them.
In the first faint light of dawn a truck drew up in front of the house. It was driven by a Dutch businessman, Mr Hookens, who worked with my father. Sono was already at the gate, waiting to say goodbye.
‘I have a present for you,’ he said.
He took me by the hand and pressed a smooth hard object into my palm. I grasped it and then held it up against the light. It was a beautiful little sea horse, carved out of pale blue jade.
‘It will bring you luck,’ said Sono.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I will keep it forever.’
And I slipped the little sea horse into my pocket.
‘In you get, lad,’ said my father, and I got up on the front seat between him and Mr Hookens.
As the truck started up, I turned to wave to Sono. He was sitting on his garden wall, grinning at me. He called out: ‘We will go everywhere, and no one can stop us!’
He was still waving when the truck took us round the bend at the end of the road.
We drove through the still, quiet streets of Batavia, occasionally passing burnt-out trucks and shattered buildings. Then we left the sleeping city far behind and were climbing into the forested hills. It had rained during the night, and when the sun came up over the green hills, it twinkled and glittered on the broad, wet leaves. The light in the forest changed from dark green to greenish gold, broken here and there by the flaming red or orange of a trumpet-shaped blossom. It was impossible to know the names of all those fantastic plants! The road had been cut through dense tropical forest, and on either side, the trees jostled each other, hungry for the sun; but they were chained together by the liana creepers and vines that fed upon the same struggling trees.
Occasionally a Jelarang, a large Javan squirrel, frightened by the passing of the truck, leapt through the trees before disappearing into the depths of the forest. We saw many birds: peacocks, jungle-fowl, and once, standing majestically at the side of the road, a crowned pigeon, its great size and splendid crest making it a striking object even at a distance. Mr Hookens slowed down so that we could look at the bird. It bowed its head so that its crest swept the ground; then it emitted a low hollow boom rather than the call of a turkey.
When we came to a small clearing, we stopped for breakfast. Butterflies, black, green and gold, flitted across the clearing. The silence of the forest was broken only by the drone of airplanes, Japanese Zeros heading for Batavia on another raid. I thought about Sono, and wondered what he would be doing at home: probably trying out the gramophone!
We ate boiled eggs and drank tea from a thermos, then got back into the truck and resumed our journey.
I must have dozed off soon after, because the next thing I remember is that we were going quite fast down a steep, winding road, and in the distance I could see a calm blue lagoon.
‘We’ve reached the sea again,’ I said.
‘That’s right,’ said my father. ‘But we’re now nearly a hundred miles from Batavia, in another part of the island. You’re looking out over the Sunda Straits.’
Then he pointed towards a shimmering white object resting on the waters of the lagoon.
‘There’s our plane,’ he said.
‘A seaplane!’ I exclaimed. ‘I never guessed. Where will it take us?’
‘To Bombay, I hope. There aren’t many other places left to go to!’
It was a very old seaplane, and no one, not even the captain—the pilot was called the captain—could promise that it would take off. Mr Hookens wasn’t coming with us; he said the plane would be back for him the next day. Besides my father and me, there were four other passengers, and all but one were Dutch. The odd man out was a Londoner, a motor mechanic who’d been left behind in Java when his unit was evacuated. (He told us later that he’d fallen asleep at a bar in the Chinese quarter, waking up some hours after his regiment had moved off!) He looked rather scruffy. He’d lost the top button of his shirt, but, instead of leaving his collar open, as we did, he’d kept it together with a large safety pin, which thrust itself out from behind a bright pink tie.
‘It’s a relief to find you here, guvn
or,’ he said, shaking my father by the hand. ‘Knew you for a Yorkshireman the minute I set eyes on you. It’s the song-fried that does it, if you know what I mean.’ (He meant sang-froid, French for a ‘cool look.’) ‘And here I was, with all these flippin’ forriners, and me not knowing a word of what they’ve been yattering about. Do you think this old tub will get us back to Blighty?’
‘It does look a bit shaky,’ said my father. ‘One of the first flying boats, from the looks of it. If it gets us to Bombay, that’s far enough.’
‘Anywhere out of Java’s good enough for me,’ said our new companion. ‘The name’s Muggeridge.’
‘Pleased to know you, Mr Muggeridge,’ said my father. ‘I’m Bond. This is my son.’
Mr Muggeridge rumpled my hair and favoured me with a large wink.
The captain of the seaplane was beckoning to us to join him in a small skiff which was about to take us across a short stretch of water to the seaplane.
‘Here we go,’ said Mr Muggeridge. ‘Say your prayers and keep your fingers crossed.’
The seaplane was a long time getting airborne. It had to make several runs before it finally took off; then, lurching drunkenly, it rose into the clear blue sky.
‘For a moment I thought we were going to end up in the briny,’ said Mr Muggeridge, untying his seat belt. ‘And talkin’ of fish, I’d give a week’s wages for a plate of fish an’ chips and a pint of beer.’
‘I’ll buy you a beer in Bombay,’ said my father.
‘Have an egg,’ I said, remembering we still had some boiled eggs in one of the travelling bags.
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Mr Muggeridge, accepting an egg with alacrity. ‘A real egg, too! I’ve been livin’ on egg powder these last six months. That’s what they give you in the Army. And it ain’t hens’ eggs they make it from, let me tell you. It’s either gulls’ or turtles’ eggs!’
‘No,’ said my father with a straight face. ‘Snakes’ eggs.’
Mr Muggeridge turned a delicate shade of green; but he soon recovered his poise, and for about an hour kept talking about almost everything under the sun, including Churchill, Hitler, Roosevelt, Mahatma Gandhi, and Betty Grable. (The last-named was famous for her beautiful legs.) He would have gone on talking all the way to Bombay had he been given a chance; but suddenly a shudder passed through the old plane, and it began lurching again.
‘I think an engine is giving trouble,’ said my father.
When I looked through the small glassed-in window, it seemed as though the sea was rushing up to meet us.
The copilot entered the passenger cabin and said something in Dutch. The passengers looked dismayed, and immediately began fastening their seat belts.
‘Well, what did the blighter say?’ asked Mr Muggeridge.
‘I think he’s going to have to ditch the plane,’ said my father, who knew enough Dutch to get the gist of anything that was said.
‘Down in the drink!’ exclaimed Mr Muggeridge. ‘Gawd’ elp us! And how far are we from Bombay, guv?’
A few hundred miles,’ said my father.
‘Can you swim, mate?’ asked Mr Muggeridge looking at me.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But not all the way to Bombay. How far can you swim?’
‘The length of a bathtub,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry,’ said my father. ‘Just make sure your life-jacket’s properly tied.’
We looked to our life-jackets; my father checked mine twice, making sure that it was properly fastened.
The pilot had now cut both engines, and was bringing the plane down in a circling movement. But he couldn’t control the speed, and it was tilting heavily to one side. Instead of landing smoothly on its belly, it came down on a wing tip, and this caused the plane to swivel violently around in the choppy sea. There was a terrific jolt when the plane hit the water, and if it hadn’t been for the seat belts we’d have been flung from our seats. Even so, Mr Muggeridge struck his head against the seat in front, and he was now holding a bleeding nose and using some shocking language.
As soon as the plane came to a standstill, my father undid my seat belt. There was no time to lose. Water was already filling the cabin, and all the passengers—except one, who was dead in his seat with a broken neck—were scrambling for the exit hatch. The copilot pulled a lever and the door fell away to reveal high waves slapping against the sides of the stricken plane.
Holding me by the hand, my father was leading me towards the exit.
‘Quick lad,’ he said. ‘We won’t stay afloat for long.’
‘Give us a hand!’ shouted Mr Muggeridge, still struggling with his life-jacket. ‘First this bloody bleedin’ nose, and now something’s gone and stuck.’
My father helped him fix the life-jacket, then pushed him out of the door ahead of us.
As we swam away from the seaplane (Mr Muggeridge splashing fiercely alongside us), we were aware of the other passengers in the water. One of them shouted to us in Dutch to follow him.
We swam after him towards the dinghy, which had been released the moment we hit the water. That yellow dinghy, bobbing about on the waves, was as welcome as land.
All who had left the plane managed to climb into the dinghy. We were seven altogether—a tight fit. We had hardly settled down in the well of the dinghy when Mr Muggeridge, still holding his nose, exclaimed: ‘There she goes!’ And as we looked on helplessly, the seaplane sank swiftly and silently beneath the waves.
The dinghy had shipped a lot of water, and soon everyone was busy bailing it out with mugs (there were a couple in the dinghy), hats, and bare hands. There was a light swell, and every now and then water would roll in again and half fill the dinghy. But within half an hour we had most of the water out, and then it was possible to take turns, two men doing the bailing while the others rested. No one expected me to do this work, but I gave a hand anyway, using my father’s sola topi for the purpose.
‘Where are we?’ asked one of the passengers.
‘A long way from anywhere,’ said another.
‘There must be a few islands in the Indian Ocean.’
‘But we may be at sea for days before we come to one of them.’
‘Days or even weeks,’ said the captain. ‘Let us look at our supplies.’
The dinghy appeared to be fairly well provided with emergency rations: biscuits, raisins, chocolates (we’d lost our own), and enough water to last a week. There was also a first aid box, which was put to immediate use, as Mr Muggeridge’s nose needed attention. A few others had cuts and bruises. One of the passengers had received a hard knock on the head and appeared to be suffering from a loss of memory. He had no idea how we happened to be drifting about in the middle of the Indian Ocean; he was convinced that we were on a pleasure cruise a few miles off Batavia.
The unfamiliar motion of the dinghy, as it rose and fell in the troughs between the waves, resulted in almost everyone getting seasick. As no one could eat anything, a day’s rations were saved.
The sun was very hot, but my father covered my head with a large spotted handkerchief. He’d always had a fancy for bandanna handkerchiefs with yellow spots, and seldom carried fewer than two on his person; so he had one for himself too. The sola topi, well soaked in seawater, was being used by Mr Muggeridge.
It was only when I had recovered to some extent from my seasickness that I remembered the valuable stamp album, and sat up. exclaiming, ‘The stamps! Did you bring the stamp album, Dad?’
He shook his head ruefully. ‘It must be at the bottom of the sea by now,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry, I kept a few rare stamps in my wallet.’ And looking pleased with himself, he tapped the pocket of his bush shirt.
The dinghy drifted all day, with no one having the least idea where it might be taking us.
‘Probably going round in circles,’ said Mr Muggeridge pessimistically.
There was no compass and no sail, and paddling wouldn’t have got us far even if we’d had paddles; we could only resign ourselves to the whims of the cu
rrent and hope it would take us towards land or at least to within hailing distance of some passing ship.
The sun went down like an overripe tomato dissolving slowly in the sea. The darkness pressed down on us. It was a moonless night, and all we could see was the white foam on the crests of the waves. I lay with my head on my father’s shoulder, and looked up at the stars which glittered in the remote heavens.
‘Perhaps your friend Sono will look up at the sky tonight and see those same stars,’ said my father. ‘The world isn’t so big after all.’
‘All the same, there’s a lot of sea around us,’ said Mr Muggeridge from out of the darkness.
Remembering Sono, I put my hand in my pocket and was reassured to feel the smooth outline of the jade sea horse.
‘I’ve still got Sono’s sea horse,’ I said, showing it to my father.
‘Keep it carefully,’ he said. ‘It may bring us luck.’
‘Are sea horses lucky?’
‘Who knows? But he gave it to you with love, and love is like a prayer. So keep it carefully.’
I didn’t sleep much that night. I don’t think anyone slept. No one spoke much either, except of course Mr. Muggeridge, who kept muttering something about cold beer and salami.
I didn’t feel so sick the next day. By ten o’clock I was quite hungry; but breakfast consisted of two biscuits, a piece of chocolate, and a little drinking water. It was another hot day, and we were soon very thirsty, but everyone agreed that we should ration ourselves strictly.
Two or three still felt ill, but the others, including Mr Muggeridge, had recovered their appetites and normal spirits, and there was some discussion about the prospects of being picked up.
‘Are there any distress rockets in the dinghy?’ asked my father. ‘If we see a ship or a plane, we can fire a rocket and hope to be spotted. Otherwise there’s not much chance of our being seen from a distance.’
A thorough search was made in the dinghy, but there were no rockets.
‘Someone must have used them last Guy Fawkes Day,’ commented Mr Muggeridge.
‘They don’t celebrate Guy Fawkes Day in Holland,’ said my father. ‘Guy Fawkes was an Englishman.’