“Lady Jane, I would be honored and privileged to assist you,” I said. “But I will not do so for monetary gain. I suspect Thomas will feel the same.”
“Why do you say that? You don’t even know him.”
“He is staying in one of the most exclusive hotels in the world. I didn’t get the impression he’s in need of money.”
“So you think he is a sincere, compassionate man who will gladly assist.”
“Yes, I do.”
“From your extremely limited exposure to him.”
“I suppose,” I said. I couldn’t tell if she was debating with me or toying with me. Her expression gave no hint.
An awkward pause ensued as the seconds of tension ebbed away. Then she started laughing. “You shouldn’t be so serious, George. You need to learn how to have fun.”
I grinned. “You had me a bit nervous.” I mentally added humorous to her list of attributes.
She sipped her wine and then rose from her seat. “You speak to Thomas,” she said. “I’ll meet both of you here tomorrow evening at 8 PM. I want to get some sleep. I plan to make inquiries of my own tomorrow.”
I grabbed my drink and went to the opposite end of the bar and sat beside Thomas. He was still talking to the man with the shaved head. Any hope I had of joining the conversation ended when I realized they were speaking Mandarin Chinese.
They chatted for several minutes more, their words interrupted by sighs and laughs. Thomas turned to me occasionally, seeking my opinion, as if I could actually understand them. His Asian companion rose from his stool and laughed loudly. He nodded to me politely, and walked to the exit. Thomas laughed also and, as his friend took his leave, turned back to the bar and lit his pipe.
“What was all that about?” I asked.
“Li Ching is an old friend,” he said. “He made a fortune in the shipping industry. And he tells the best jokes in Singapore.” He turned to me and smiled. “So, my friend, you were not so fortunate with the lady?”
“No, it wasn’t like that,” I explained.
He chuckled. “No, of course not. It never is.”
“Thomas, that woman is Lady Jane Carrington Smythe, an aristocrat from New Delhi.”
“I didn’t care for New Delhi,” he said. “India is interesting enough, especially from a spiritualistic perspective, but the weather was...”
“She asked for my assistance with a difficult situation,” I said. “I agreed to help her, but I’m not sure I can.”
He seemed concerned. “Is she in trouble?”
“No,” I said. “She is trying to find someone. A soldier. He was supposed to meet her yesterday here at the hotel.”
“And he never showed up?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“It might be a mistake to get involved,” he said. “Her friend could be dead. Especially given the recent fighting. Imagine how horrible it would be to have to tell her.”
“I already considered that.” I thought about Maggie. Alive one minute and gone the next.
“What do you plan to do?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t know the area or the people. And the military will not release information. At least not officially. I told her that I only knew one man who might be able to help.”
“And who is that?” he asked.
I paused. I had no right to impose. He was a stranger only hours before. “You,” I said finally.
He showed no emotion, and merely reflected on what I’d said while puffing his pipe. “Why did you choose me?”
“I don’t know, instinct, I suppose. This afternoon you helped me. And you know Singapore.”
He studied the remaining patrons in the bar, smiling at the ladies. I let a moment pass without disturbing him.
“She’s willing to pay whatever you ask,” I said.
He puffed his pipe, still gazing around the room. “Money isn’t an issue. I have enough to suit me.”
His reply made me curious. I had seen no evidence of employment. And he didn’t seem born to wealth, even though he was staying at a posh hotel. But I wasn’t rude enough to ask, even though I wanted to.
“I’ll consider it,” he said abruptly. He changed the conversation to the Japanese assault.
We talked until 1 a.m. I had stayed longer than planned and was very tired. It was time to go. I got off the stool, stood a moment to steady my weak legs, and said my farewells.
The stillness of the night was shattered by air-raid sirens. Seconds later the drone of enemy aircraft, faint at first but gradually growing louder, challenged the whine of the warning whistles. The room rumbled from distant explosions; pictures on the walls shook but did not fall. I noticed my glass vibrating on the bar
“We had best get to the bomb shelter,” I said. I had no desire to risk my life twice in one day.
Thomas stood, fumbled with his pipe, and filled his glass. The other patrons rushed past on their way to the basement, shouting and shoving. I started to follow.
When I was halfway across the room I paused and waited. Thomas was still at the bar, choosing the bottle of gin rather than his glass.
“Thomas! Come on!” I started for the lobby, where a stairway led to the basement.
“Let’s use the outside entrance,” he called. He walked to the opposite end of the room where double doors opened into the street.
A massive explosion ripped through the night, dwarfing the magnitude of the blasts before it. I watched in horror as the wall beside him shattered, exploding in an eerie, timeless motion. It burst into fragments, raining dust and debris, and he disappeared from sight.
CHAPTER 5
The blast knocked me off my feet, and I stumbled backwards onto the tiled floor. I sat for a moment, stunned and bewildered. When I regained my senses, I saw that the outside wall had collapsed. A section about twelve feet square was destroyed, crumbling into a heap of timber, stone, stucco and plaster. A few vertical posts remained, looking terribly undersized to support the floors above them, and a large opening was left, offering a gateway to the expansive lawn beyond. I peered out of the gap and saw a crater in the ground where the shell had landed, broad and shallow and adjacent to the building. Then I realized that Thomas was buried in the wreckage.
I scurried to the debris, pulling brick and stone and wooden beams and bits of a broken window off him. I choked on the dust and quickly grew weary, fighting the burning ache in my lungs and feeling the strength drain from my muscles.
“Thomas!” I called.
I heard nothing. There was no scraping, no digging. I wondered if he was unconscious. Or worse. I dug frantically, yanking and scratching and clawing, my fingertips torn and bleeding.
The bombing continued; the sound of explosions were both distant and near, close to the hotel and on other sections of the island. I heard planes whizzing, bombs dropping, machine guns firing, but unlike the air raid of that afternoon, I heard aircraft fighting in the skies, the distinct sounds of planes swooping as they evaded each other, machine guns firing continuously. The Allies were meeting the enemy over the skies of Singapore, refusing to succumb.
I knew I had to move quickly. Thomas could be suffocating. But I didn’t have the stamina. “Dear God, give me the strength to help my friend.” I gasped for air, coughing and choking, and struggled to continue, my muscles growing weary as each second elapsed.
I pawed at the debris with my hands, scooping it away. I grabbed wooden posts, pulled them aside, and eyed the structure they had supported. The hotel still seemed sturdy.
I removed one more beam and saw Thomas’s face caked in dirt and dust. He gasped and started coughing and then, once an arm was freed, he wiped the dirt and debris from his face and nose, crying out with relief.
The rest of the rubble was harder to clear, timber and brick and plaster; it was several minutes before he was completely freed. I dragged him from the wreckage, heaving and gasping for air, and helped him to his feet. Then I wiped the dust from his eyes.
I stood before him, beads of sweat dripping from my forehead, my muscles trembling. I wiped more dirt from his face. “Are you all right?”
He coughed, spitting dust from his lungs. “Yes, I think so. Still a bit disoriented.”
I led him away from the collapsed wall, over towards the bar, and guided him to a chair. “Here, sit down.”
He took a moment to regain his senses. Blood dripped from his forehead and oozed from his arm. I regained my breathing, and felt the strength slowly return to my sore muscles. It took me a minute to realize what had happened. My little prayer had been answered. I was too weak to be accepted by the military, yet I had just saved another man’s life.
The bombing ceased, and sirens signaling the end of the attack sounded. There were no more planes, no more machine guns. Sounds of battle were replaced by ambulance sirens and rescue vehicles. A few minutes later, emergency responders were out on the street, assessing the damage, searching for injured, clearing the roadways, and determining what was needed to insure life in Singapore continued.
“You have a nasty gash on your forehead and a jagged cut on your arm,” I said. I applied pressure to the head wound. “When the others return, we’ll send for a doctor.”
He didn’t argue. He sat in the chair, gulping fresh air. The dust was just beginning to settle, and through the opening in the outer wall, I could see a building a few blocks away. It burned furiously, the yellow flames flickering in the night.
I went to the bar and returned with a moist towel and wiped the remainder of the dirt and dust from his face, gently dabbing his injuries. I inspected the cut on his forehead. Blood dripped down his face and onto his shirt. I held the towel firmly against the wound.
“Hold this a moment,” I said, moving his hand to the towel.
Patrons started to return from the bomb shelter, and Thomas addressed the first to arrive. “Mr. Chang, can you find a doctor?”
“Of course,” the man replied. “One of the guests is a physician. I’ll go and get him.”
“What happened?” the bartender asked.
“A bomb dropped just outside. The impact collapsed part of the wall,” I said. “Unfortunately, it fell on Thomas.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Hawkins, the elderly secretary for the Singapore Croquet Club. “How did you ever survive?”
“George dug me out,” Thomas said.
“You’re lucky he was here,” the bartender said while surveying the damage.
“Yes, I am,” he replied.
An Asian man carrying a doctor’s bag hurried in, glancing at his watch. We appreciated his help because we knew he was needed for injuries far worse. He rapidly placed ten stitches in the cut on Thomas’s forehead and five more in the gash on his arm. A quick examination for more serious injuries found nothing but bruises, some abrasions, and aching muscles.
“You’re fortunate,” the doctor said. He observed the gaping hole in the wall.
“You could have been killed.”
“I would have if George hadn’t saved me.”
I was proud that I had helped him. I knew that if the situation were ever reversed, he would do the same.
“Get some rest,” the doctor advised. “You have a few bruises, but you’ll feel better in no time.”
Once the crowd dissipated, Thomas and I made a toast to celebrate his survival. I handed him his glass, and he raised it.
“To my friend George,” he said. “The man who saved my life.”
I clinked his glass with mine. “I don’t know if I saved your life, but I am your friend.”
“Fair enough,” he said, banging his glass on the bar top. “And our adventures continue. Tomorrow I’ll show you Singapore’s defenses. It won’t be what you’re expecting.”
CHAPTER 6
The countryside sped by in the darkness, trees and hills and picket fences framing manicured lawns that bordered English country cottages with thatched roofs. The winding road led up one hill and down another, curving in and out, perched aside a cliff that led to a rock-strewn coast where waves lapped against the shore.
“I’m sorry we left so late,” I said, noticing Maggie’s eyelids fluttering.
She yawned and then kissed me on the cheek. “That’s why we’re taking a holiday. Because you work too hard.”
“There’s so much to write about, with air raids in London and the Nazi offensive on Moscow.”
“But you work every day and you need time off. We haven’t been away since the wedding. And next month is Christmas. So this is the only chance we’ll get.”
She brushed her hand through my hair. “And you are going to relax and we are going to have fun.”
She looked out the window, studying a dog that ran by the road, and a few moments later I saw her eyes close. I continued driving as 2 a.m. came and went, my mind drifting to a story I wanted to file on Monday morning.
The road was deserted with only an occasional passing car or truck. Distant noises of the moonlit night were accented by the drone of tires rolling down the road. The sounds were so soothing and serene they caused my eyelids to droop, and my breathing slowed to a regular, relaxed rate so typical of approaching slumber.
The horn blared suddenly, and my head snapped forward disjointed and confused. The truck loomed large, its headlights growing bigger and brighter. I swerved sharply, trying to avoid it. I felt my car tip, two wheels leaving the ground, skidding forward and banging against the fragile rail. The vehicle began to roll on its side, sliding against the barrier, the cliff wall dropping to the raging sea below.
The crunching sounds of the rail breaking, the truck twisting the metal of the car and pushing it ever so slowly and unavoidably towards the cliff. The steel screeched as it bent and broke and with one last cry of protest the car hurtled over the edge, spinning in an eerie, timeless motion towards the sea.
I screamed, bolting upright in bed.
My face was covered in sweat, my body trembling. It took several minutes before my racing heart slowed. I eased onto the pillow, lying on my back, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. I closed my eyes and cried, whispering Maggie’s name trying to forget the horrid nightmare that I had lived once already.
I awoke near 8 a.m., my muscles stiff and sore, my discomfort magnified by the horrible dream. I hadn’t eaten anything during last night’s fray, and my stomach roared like a waterfall. My head was a knot of throbbing pain. I couldn’t remember a time when I felt worse.
I tried calling each of the military contacts that Alistair Duncan provided. None were available, and, even though I waited in the room for an hour, they didn’t return my call. I suspected that, with the island’s defense paramount, most of the military was too consumed with the upcoming assault to have time to talk to a reporter.
When I entered the hotel dining room, I saw Thomas sitting at a table overlooking the street. The wooden shutters were open and pedestrians were wandering down Orchard Road, gawking at the most recent bomb damage. I went over and joined him.
“Thomas, how are you feeling?”
“A bit bruised, I’m afraid.”
“That’s to be expected,” I replied. “But it could have been worse.”
He motioned to a waitress. “Mr. Adams will join me.”
She came to our table and prepared to take my order. I looked at the fruit, cheese, ham and croissants that Thomas was devouring and my empty stomach felt like it would leave my body and pounce on it.
“I’ll have everything he’s having,” I said.
He stopped chewing and arched his eyebrows. “You’re that hungry?”
“Yes, I am.”
He returned to his meal. I wondered how he could eat so heavily after all he had drunk the night before.
The waitress returned with my coffee and I sipped it slowly, savoring the rich aroma that instantly eased my headache. I started the slow process of recovery.
A few minutes later Thomas finished eating. He laid his fork on the empty plate and sat back in his chair. He li
t his pipe and blew clouds of cherry smoke in all directions. He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, as if suddenly recalling a long-forgotten secret.
“I’ve borrowed a friend’s car,” he told me. “I’ll take you to the northern part of the island and show you some of the defenses.”
“I would like that,” I said.
“We can also look for the lady’s friend. Do you know the regiment?”
“I do,” I replied. “He’s with the Twelfth Infantry Brigade. His name is Captain Balraj Patel.”
“We can leave as soon as you’ve finished breakfast.”
When Thomas went to get the vehicle, I waited in front of the hotel. Two trucks were parked near a side door; one was delivering fish and the second was a beer distributor. I decided to ask some questions.
The beer truck driver was a stout, friendly man dressed in shorts and a sleeveless shirt. As he loaded cases of beer onto a hand truck, I wandered over to him.
“How are you?” I asked. “Have you been bothered by the air raids?”
“About as much as everyone else,” he said. “I just hope we beat them back.”
“Do you deliver all over the island?”
“Oh, yes. From the cricket club to the navy base.” “How do our defenses look?”
He shrugged. “I’m not really an expert, but we have troops everywhere. I don’t know if it’s enough.” “Have you seen any Indian troops? I’m looking for an old friend.”
“Sure,” he said. “I just got back from a delivery at the navy base. There’s an Indian division there.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll take a look.”
I walked away, appreciative of the information, and walked over to the fish merchant.
“How are you?” I said. “Are the fish caught locally?”
He was a thin, swarthy man who smiled as I approached. “Yes, sir,” he said. “And they’re fresh too. These were caught this morning off the east coast.”
“Really?” I asked. “Did you see anything unusual?”
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