Marine H SBS

by Ian Blake

  The first hint of dawn was in the sky above the mountains when they reached the basha. They doused it with petrol and set it alight. As they watched the building go up in flames, a series of violent explosions rocked the air, making Tiller jump sideways towards the nearest cover.

  Sandy laughed. ‘Pockets of air in the bamboo, Sarge. They expand and explode. Sounds just like small-arms fire. I tell you, Sarge, Burma’s full of oddities. You’ll get used to it.’

  6

  ‘Good. In fact, excellent.’ Major Jim Danforth leant forward in his chair and dropped the report on to his desk.

  Outside in the compound that housed the local military establishments at Cox’s Bazar the singsong chatter of Indian soldiers mixed with the chirrup of the local frog population. Together they made a soothing, almost somnolent sound that drifted through the open windows of the SBS officer’s tiny office. A hoopoe flew in its undulating way into a nearby tree, disturbing a family of monkeys, which screeched angrily at the salmon-pink bird.

  Tiller wiped the sweat from his forehead and, out of the corner of his eye, watched a gecko traverse the wall behind his commanding officer. It moved in jerks. For minutes at a time it stayed motionless, as if it had been hung there, then would suddenly dart forward a few inches at incredible speed before halting again. Once or twice its tongue flicked in and out, though whether it was testing the space in front of it, or was catching something invisible to the human eye, Tiller couldn’t tell. That’s right, carefully does it, he said to it approvingly: the well-known adage ‘time spent in reconnaissance is never wasted’ applied as much to a gecko as it did to an SBS man.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘About half a ton, you reckon?’

  ‘That’s what Sergeant Welsh calculated. Didn’t the Burmese crew know?’

  ‘They’re still being interrogated,’ said Danforth. ‘The trouble is, you have to use two interpreters: one to translate from Arakanese into Burmese, the other from Burmese into English. It takes an hour to ask a question and another hour to get an answer. Bloody typical.’

  Typical of what exactly, Danforth didn’t say.

  ‘There was an interpreter with us who seemed to speak English and the lingo,’ Tiller said.

  ‘Tantok, you mean? He speaks a little English, but he won’t interrogate anyone. His sympathies lie with the locals, really.’

  Tiller remembered the tall, grave, dignified figure of the captain of the sandoway as he had peered down at him over the side of his ship.

  ‘What will happen to them, sir?’

  ‘The crew? The captain will be fined and the ship will probably be impounded.’

  ‘I suppose they were only trying to earn their living,’ Tiller muttered. ‘And I don’t suppose the Japs gave them much choice.’

  ‘True. But if the Japs caught any Burmese working for us,’ Danforth reminded him, ‘they’d shoot them out of hand. We don’t want to antagonize the locals – the British colonial government sitting on its collective arse in Simla keeps reminding us not to – but equally we can’t allow them to aid and abet the Japs to supply their front-line troops. We try and steer a middle path. We end up satisfying no one. Bloody typical.’

  The gecko jerked across the wall. The fan whirring noisily and laboriously in the middle of the ceiling stirred the humid air without noticeably cooling it.

  ‘I wanted to have a word with you, Tiger. I know you’re only attached to us pro tem, but Taffy has spoken highly of you. Frankly, I want to hang on to you for as long as possible. There’s something quite big in the air and I could use you for it. In the meantime I’d give you your own ML and your own patrol. How about it?’

  Tiller hesitated. Tasler wouldn’t be arriving in Ceylon for some weeks. He now had the dreaded word ‘instructor’ on his records, which meant, in theory, any senior officer in the Far East theatre could make a request for him on a temporary basis. Once that occurred he might be lost in a jungle of red tape from which even Blondie might not be able to extricate him. Much better to remain here, where there was at least some action, until Blondie called for him.

  ‘Fine, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘Good. There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  Danforth pressed a button on his intercom. ‘Ask Mr Coates to come in, will you.’

  As he leant back in his chair a satisfied smile played on Danforth’s face. Though HO – hostilities only – he had taken to soldiering as the proverbial duck to water, and had taken to the SBS in particular. Trained by Roger Pountney, he had survived some of the early raids in the Mediterranean, and had done his stint as an instructor at Ardrossan–Saltcoats in Ayrshire before joining Z SBS – one of Pountney’s offshoots – in Algiers. Z SBS specialized in clandestine warfare, ferrying agents into France and Italy from Allied submarines, and sometimes – if the agents were lucky – in picking them up again.

  Danforth’s time in Z SBS had highlighted for him the essential difference between the SBS and the SAS, whom many in the military hierarchy thought of as the land equivalent of the SBS. The SBS worked discreetly, in pairs, essentially alone, while the SAS’s job was to work and fight together to create mayhem behind enemy lines. This basic difference in approach necessitated different types of men, something the high-ups did not always appreciate. So it sometimes occurred that the wrong sort of men appeared in the ranks of the SBS. It could have been that Tiller was one of them. Danforth now knew he was not.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Major?’

  The crisp, authoritative voice made Tiller turn in his chair. The man standing by the door was in civilian clothes – khaki shirt and shorts, knee-length khaki socks – but he wore a revolver at his hip and carried a thick, black walking stick with an unusually shaped crook.

  Danforth leapt to his feet, crossed the room, and pumped the civilian’s hand warmly. ‘Good to see you, Dick. Come in, come in.’ The man accepted a chair on the other side to Danforth’s desk from where Tiller was sitting. He had a deeply creased, leathery face, a close-clipped moustache, vigorous black hair slightly tinged with grey, and eyes like gimlets. They bored into Tiller as Danforth made the introductions, taking in Tiller’s parachute wings and DCM ribbon without visible change of expression.

  Tiller nodded awkwardly. He knew without thinking how to react in front of men dressed in uniform, whether they were generals or corporals. But civilians – especially one in a combat zone – always made him uneasy. War at the sharp end was the business of soldiers, that’s how he saw it.

  ‘Mr Coates is – was – a forestry officer in Burma,’ Danforth explained. ‘Part of the colonial government.’

  ‘Game warden too,’ Coates added, ‘until the buggers sacked me.’ He cleared his throat harshly as if he was about to spit out the memory of it.

  ‘Quite,’ said Danforth easily. Tiller got the immediate impression that the SBS major knew and liked Coates, and understood his testiness. ‘Except your file, Dick,’ he said gently, ‘has it worded "voluntary retirement after a distinguished career which earned him a well-earned OBE", or something similar. I much prefer that version.’

  ‘You may. I don’t,’ Coates said curtly. ‘Mealy-mouthed buggers. Never ever said what they meant. I was sacked. Given the boot. It’s as simple as that.’

  The gecko, perhaps not accustomed to all the movement in the room, had decided to beat a retreat. It had turned round but must have then forgotten where it had come from, for it stayed frozen at the same height as the slowly circulating fan. Tiller tried to suppress a smile.

  ‘And what are you grinning at, young man?’ Coates said, glaring across the room.

  ‘I always like to hear someone speaking the truth, sir,’ said Tiller. He called this prickly old sod ‘sir’ because he had been brought up by his grandfather to respect his elders, and Coates must be, Tiller reckoned, all of forty-five. He glanced at Danforth. ‘Sorry, sir, am I speaking out of turn?’

  ‘Not at all. Tiger. I think you two will get along famously.’

&nb
sp; Tiller stiffened inwardly. He opened his mouth and then shut it again. He felt like the gecko, not entirely sure which way to move.

  Coates, however, pounced. ‘You mean, I’ll be working with Sergeant Tiller?’

  Danforth nodded. ‘Any objections?’

  Coates cleared his throat and briefly smoothed his moustache. ‘Looks a bit young, that’s all. How long have you been in Burma, Sergeant?’

  Tiller told him.

  ‘Two weeks. Two weeks?’ Coates seemed amazed that anyone could be anywhere only two weeks. ‘You know how long I’ve been in Burma? Twenty-five years.’

  ‘That’s why we’ve taken up your kind offer to help,’ Danforth said tactfully. ‘We need your experience.’

  Danforth turned to Tiller. ‘Mr Coates is fluent in Arakanese. He knows the Arakan and its people intimately. He also knows just about everything there is to know about the Japanese because he helped fight them in 1942. He’ll be working alongside you on the kind of operations you’ll be doing. But you’re in charge, Tiger. Dick understands that, don’t you, Dick?’

  ‘What are these operations exactly?’ Tiller asked.

  ‘As you know, we’re primarily here to harass the Japs’ coastal supply lines. Fifteenth Corps is planning to make a big push in the area now to try and capture Akyab before the monsoon proper begins. So we’ve had orders not to scale down our activities because of the monsoon but to increase them to obtain as much information about Japanese dispositions as possible. That might mean occasionally going inland – not just keeping to the rivers – both to capture Japanese personnel for interrogation and to send in jitter parties.’

  ‘Jitter parties?’ Tiller asked.

  ‘Small groups of men who’ll attack Jap rear positions. Make them edgy, uncertain. The Japs used them a lot in Burma in 1942 and we’ve taken a leaf from their book. It means working with the local people more than the kind of patrol you’ve been on so far. But we’ve also got to try and stop the locals warning the Japanese of our presence.’

  ‘How do they do that?’

  ‘They see an ML approaching at dusk and when it gets dark they simply light a bonfire. The Japs then know there’s an ML in the area and they lie low in one of the chaungs until the ML’s passed. It’s very crude but very effective and we’ve got to stop it. Too many supplies are still getting through to the Japs.’

  ‘And who’s going to make up the rest of the team, sir?’

  ‘You happy to have Sandy and Dopey? Taffy doesn’t mind.’

  In their different ways both SBS men had proved themselves during that last patrol. Tiller nodded his agreement. ‘That’s fine with me.’

  ‘Good. We’ll go down to the ML now so that I can brief you and the skipper on the patrol tonight.’

  Outside, the towering clouds loomed above the harbour, threatening yet another downpour.

  ‘When do you reckon the monsoon proper will arrive, Dick?’ Danforth asked Coates.

  The civilian studied the clouds. ‘Not long. Another week or so. It’s going to be early this year.’

  ‘After this morning’s downpour, I thought it had already arrived,’ Tiller commented.

  ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet, Tiger,’ Danforth said. ‘I was here at the tail end of last year’s monsoon and what came down this morning was just a light shower. Up to two hundred inches can fall in the Arakan in a year. That’s a hell of a lot of water.’

  Their ML had recently arrived from Simonstown via Chittagong. You could tell which of its crew hadn’t been in Burma long, Tiller thought. In the Western Desert white knees indicated a new arrival. Here, the skins of some of the crew had not yet acquired the yellowish tinge that appeared after a few months on Mepacrine.

  The ML’s skipper greeted them with a casual salute and a warm smile. A small monkey, perched on his shoulder, chattered noisily at them. Its bright, button eyes watched them warily as they shook hands with its owner, who introduced himself as Lieutenant David Locker. ‘Inevitably known as Davy Jones after the locker, I’m afraid,’ he said with a friendly grin, his South African accent very distinct.

  Under his beard Locker’s skin was quite yellow and it transpired that he was an old hand on the Arakan coast.

  The monkey bounced and chattered as Coates peered at it. ‘A rhesus – am I right?’ he said, but it wasn’t really a question.

  ‘If you say so,’ said the South African with his strange nasal twang. ‘We all call him Nabob. We traded him for a hundred cigarettes when we stopped at Calcutta. I’ll show you round.’

  One ML was very much like another in layout, but there was an atmosphere unique to each. Tiller felt it at once in the way the crew reacted. Most of them were new to Burma, but they’d already been long enough with their captain to catch his obvious enthusiasm for his job. They were alert, smartly turned out, and the ML was spotless – quite unusual in a new vessel which must have been sailed straight from the builder’s yard.

  At one point Locker drew Tiller to one side. ‘We’ll be working together a lot. In harbour it’s best to keep to the formalities, but at sea and on patrol I’m Davy to you and your patrol.’

  ‘And I’m Tiger.’

  ‘Who’s this civvy character, Tiger?’ Jones nodded behind him at Coates, who was examining the three-pounder on the foredeck.

  ‘Someone the major foisted on me. He’s a sort of guide.’

  Tiller expected the lieutenant to object, perhaps almost hoped he would. He assumed naval officers didn’t like civilians aboard their ships any more than he liked having one as part of his patrol. Instead, the South African said: ‘Good idea. I know the coastline from here right down to Sandoway, and most of the rivers, but you’ll need someone who knows the area if you go inland.’

  In the tiny wardroom Danforth spread out a large-scale map of the area to the south of Cox’s Bazar. ‘This is the River Mayu, which you patrolled the other night, Tiger. But I want you to move further south and go up the Kaladan. As you can see, like the Mayu it runs from north to south, so it’s a convenient artery into Japanese-held territory. Akyab, at its entrance, is still in Japanese hands, but we’re not sure how strong they are inland. The Kaladan’s navigable right up to Paletwa, but that’s already fallen to Fifteenth Corps. You know the Kaladan, Davy?’

  The South African shook his head. ‘Never been up it. We don’t usually operate so far from base.’

  ‘Familiar to you, Dick?’

  Coates nodded. ‘It’s a maze of islands and chaungs,’ he replied.

  ‘It’s also a main artery for Jap supplies,’ said Danforth, ‘but that’s not why we’re sending you up here. We need to know how strongly the Japs are holding the area inland. Latest intelligence suggests they still hold Apaukwa. The best way of doing that is to take a Jap prisoner.’

  ‘I thought that was almost impossible,’ said Tiller.

  ‘It’s easier than it was,’ said Danforth. ‘Jap morale is pretty low now that they are on the run. So the ordinary soldier is tending to surrender, not commit hara-kiri.’

  Tiller wondered what sort of army they were up against if suicide was a sign of high morale.

  ‘Seppaku is the correct term,’ Coates interjected without taking his eyes off the map.

  ‘Whatever it’s called, it’s messy,’ said Danforth. ‘So don’t go for an officer or a senior NCO even though they’re likely to know more. Take a junior NCO or an ordinary soldier. Because being made a prisoner of war is such a disgrace the ordinary soldier has had no training in how to counter interrogation. So it’s easy enough to get out of them what they do know.’

  Davy was busy measuring the distance from the sea to Apaukwa. ‘That’s a good sixty miles,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be a long patrol.’

  ‘We’ll expect you to be away a week, perhaps more,’ Danforth confirmed. He turned to his SBS men. ‘Take three Mk II canoes but no heavy automatic weapons. You’re not going there to cause mayhem. It’ll be a typical SBS operation. And don’t forget your Mepacrine and condoms.�
��

  ‘Condoms?’ Tiller queried. ‘What . . . ?’

  ‘They are the only way to keep your watch, compass and matches dry on patrol,’ Danforth explained, and then grinned at Tiller and said: ‘What else were you thinking you might need them for, Tiger?’

  They sailed from Cox’s Bazar the following evening and an alert lookout on the ML saw the first flare of the bonfire just as the bottom rim of the sun touched the horizon to starboard. The fire was almost abeam of the ML and it flickered momentarily, hardly visible to the naked eye, before it disappeared.

  Davy trained his binoculars on the hillside from where the lick of flame had appeared, and mouthed an expletive which made Nabob hop and chitter on his shoulder.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said loudly.

  They were well south of the River Naaf, off a part of the Arakan that could be held by either Fifteenth Corps or the Japanese. Either way, the last thing Davy wanted was for the chain of bonfires to precede his arrival off Akyab. Especially as they were going to have to lie up for the day under camouflage netting before preceding at dusk up the river. The Japs didn’t have much offensive sea power in the area, but they still had some bombers. If they knew where the ML was lying it was possible they might try to attack it from the air.

  ‘Are you sure it’s a signal fire?’ Tiller asked. He was standing next to Davy on the ML’s open bridge.

  ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out,’ Davy answered. ‘Port thirty. Increase speed to fifteen knots,’ he said into the voice pipe. ‘We’re going in and I’ll put you ashore in the rubber dinghy to deal with it, Tiger. It’ll take you and two others. Is that enough?’

  Tiller nodded, though he had no idea if it would be or not.

  ‘They won’t be Japs,’ said Davy reassuringly, ‘and probably not ordinary natives either. Often they’re members of the Burma National Army who do this sort of thing – a collaborationist outfit.’

  The coastline loomed up in the gathering dark and the ML slowed to a stop. The rubber dinghy was launched over the side and the crewman scrambled down into it. Coates appeared on deck, buckling on his revolver.