by Ian Blake
On the Friday morning Tiller and the Chinese agent Tiller was to ferry ashore were briefed by Tasler before taking off in the Catalina; and that evening – just as an expectant Hazel-eyes was stepping on the train for Jaffna – a staff officer in Kandy called Tasler and officially requested Colour Sergeant Tiller’s presence at the beautiful white palace to discuss his posting as a Welman instructor.
But by that time the Catalina, its specially fitted extra fuel tanks brimming, had just waddled off the water on the strait and was beginning to weave its way through a lower layer of monsoon cloud.
13
A hand touched Tiller’s shoulder and he opened his eyes immediately. The dispatcher crouched down beside him so that Tiller could hear him above the steady roar of the Catalina’s engine.
‘Singapore’s dead ahead to the north of us. Half an hour to go. Thought I’d give you plenty of warning.’
Tiller glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. ‘When’s dawn?’
‘Any minute now.’
Tiller looked across at the joe. The man was wide awake but his almond eyes stared straight ahead as if focused on something in his mind. Poor bugger, Tiller thought, rather him than me. What was that quote he had heard somewhere? ‘Nothing concentrates a man’s mind so much as knowing he’s to be hanged in a fortnight.’ Something like that.
He wondered what it was the joe had to do in Japanese-occupied Singapore. He hadn’t asked him, of course, and Tiller certainly hadn’t been told anything except where he was to land the Force 136 agent, what he could expect there, and where he was to rendezvous with the submarine which was to pick him up. The ‘need to know’ policy which governed all clandestine operations confined his knowledge to these few basic facts. The joe would know what he had to do, so would his handler in Colombo, who would be listening in for his signals. But only the bigwigs in Force 136, whose headquarters were at Meerut near Delhi, would know what the operation was really all about.
However, Tiller at least knew that the joe was not on a sabotage mission, for there were no explosives or limpets in the supply container. There was just the wireless, rations, water, medical kit and a .45 pistol with only one spare clip of ammunition.
The dispatcher handed Tiller a mug of steaming coffee, which Tiller accepted eagerly, wrapping his hands around its cheap china surface. It was surprisingly cold in the unpressurized Catalina, which had had to climb high to avoid the worst of the monsoon cloud. The dispatcher offered coffee to the joe, but he just shook his head without taking his eyes off whatever it was he was looking at inside himself.
The Catalina droned on, and then Tiller heard the engines change pitch slightly and felt the aircraft gradually start to descend. He stood up, put on his parachute and dragged the container with its inflatable and outboard engine closer to the door. The dispatcher did the same with Tiller’s supply container, which had a spare wireless, extra clothing, food, water, fuel for the outboard, Sten gun and extra ammunition – everything that was needed for Tiller to survive for several days among the maze of islands that lay to the south of Singapore and its great harbour.
Tiller looked at the joe and then glanced at the dispatcher and raised his eyebrows. The man had not moved. His parachute lay by his side with his helmet on top of it. The dispatcher went over to him and crouched down, but still the joe remained motionless and deep in thought.
The dispatcher began talking to him – Tiller could not hear what he was saying above the roar of the engines – but he could tell something was wrong. Eventually the joe stood up and allowed the dispatcher to buckle on his parachute and adjust the helmet on his head.
‘I don’t think he’s going to jump,’ said the dispatcher in Tiller’s ear.
‘Shit.’
‘He might follow you if you jumped first.’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ Tiller exploded. ‘Me down there and him up here? What good’s that going to do?’
The dispatcher shrugged. ‘Up to you, mate.’
He opened the fuselage door and a blast of air buffeted Tiller as he tugged at the wire that ran at head height the length of the fuselage, to make sure it was secure. If the wire came away from its fastenings the static line would not open the parachute and the result would be what was known as a ‘roman candle’. Satisfied, Tiller indicated that the joe should snap his static line on in front of his. Obediently, the man did so and Tiller thought the crisis was past. The joe’s eyes were even moving now and he acknowledged Tiller’s look with a nod.
Then Tiller snapped on his static line and waited for the dispatcher to call the joe forward. The dispatcher kept glancing at his watch and then out of the door, where the monsoon cloud still swirled and eddied in the half light.
Tiller could feel the Catalina sinking further and the engines took on a different note. Down and down the aircraft went, circling now, until the clouds thinned, thickened again, then parted to reveal below a confusing pattern of islands and ocean, alarmingly close, all half shrouded in an early morning mist.
They would jump at only 700 feet to ensure accuracy. Water glittered below them.
The dispatcher signalled the joe forward and rested his hand on his back between his shoulder blades. The joe took up his position correctly at the door, his hands holding on to the fuselage on either side, his knees slightly bent, his feet on the edge of the aircraft so that the toes of his boots were in space.
Tiller thought then that he should have told the dispatcher to make sure the joe kept his head raised, but it was too late now. He saw the joe look down and his whole body seemed to stiffen. The light above the dispatcher turned from red to green indicating that the pilot was over the drop zone. The dispatcher struck the joe firmly on his back: the signal for him to jump. But the joe didn’t move and when the dispatcher hit him again, harder this time, the joe humped his body and straightened his arms.
The dispatcher yelled something, but the joe wouldn’t move. Tiller slid his static line forward along the wire and grasped the joe’s upper arm. The man turned and looked at him and Tiller could see the sheer, frozen terror in his face and the blankness of his unfocused eyes.
Tiller dropped his hand, turned to the dispatcher and shook his head.
The co-pilot came out of the cabin. ‘The skipper wants to know what the fuck’s going on?’ he yelled above the roar of the Catalina’s engines. A pilot could instantly tell from his aircraft’s trim if its cargo was still on board.
‘You’re going to have to land,’ Tiller yelled at him.
He had only once before seen a parachutist refuse to jump.
In his panic, the parachutist had resisted all persuasion with the strength of a madman and it had ended with the dispatcher having his jaw broken. So it was pointless trying to lever the joe out of the aircraft. Even if they managed to do it without injury to anyone – including the joe – they would not be able to eject him at the right moment: split-second timing was needed to ensure the parachutist landed on the right stretch of water and not on one of the jungle-covered islands.
The co-pilot did not argue but disappeared back into the cabin. Tiller wondered if the pilot would abort the operation, as he had every right to do, but after a few moments the Catalina began to swing round and drop towards the water.
Tiller tapped the joe on the arm.
‘We’re not going to jump,’ he yelled at him. ‘We’re going to land.’
He reinforced his words by taking off his helmet. The joe understood the action if not the words, for he relaxed and backed away from the door. Tiller unclipped his static line and unstrapped his parachute, and the joe followed suit.
The dispatcher said to Tiller: ‘We never had this trouble when I was in Liberators. They all went down a chute together. Went out like peas in a pod.’ His tone was dispassionate and matter-of-fact. It had been just another technical hitch. There was no hint of criticism of the joe, who, the dispatcher knew – they all knew – was about to embark on a mission from which he could easily fail
to return.
The Catalina throttled back.
‘Hold tight,’ yelled the dispatcher.
The Catalina seemed to go tail down, then almost stall, the engines revved hard and then cut, and moments later the flying boat was bouncing across the water. A wall of spray swept through the open door, soaking the dispatcher. Tiller grinned at him. He found he was infinitely relieved he didn’t have to jump. Though they had been given cans of shark repellent no one had seemed sure how effective the stuff was and he still had a vivid picture in his mind of the sharks feeding on the dead Japanese in Kyaukpyu harbour.
The Catalina slowed and then squatted down into the water until it came to a halt, its engine idling.
The co-pilot stuck his head out of the cabin and nodded.
‘Let’s go,’ said the dispatcher.
The co-pilot handed Tiller a chart and pointed to a cross on it. Tiller nodded his thanks and stuffed the chart in a pocket. He swung out of the door and on to the lower strut of the wing while the dispatcher bundled the container with the inflatable into the water, yanking its static line as he did so. The container opened and Tiller heard the hiss of the carbon-dioxide bottle filling the inflatable. The dispatcher handed him the static line and began breaking open the supply containers.
When the rubber dinghy was fully inflated Tiller fitted the wooden duckboards into its bottom to make it rigid, tied it to the wing strut and then jumped into it. He checked that all the dinghy’s gear was present and undamaged before rigging the Evinrude outboard. He lowered it through a metal aperture in the inflatable’s stern which looked in size and shape rather like a bucket without a bottom. When Tiller had screwed it firmly in place the dispatcher began passing him the supplies.
The inflatable – the Americans called it a Nylon Pneumatic Boat – was eight feet long and three and a half feet wide and had a pointed and upturned bow and stern. For stability it had twelve plastic air-filled sausage-shaped ‘bladders’, each of which could be replaced if punctured. There had been no time to test it before the operation but Tiller was instantly reassured by its stability and rugged construction, so much better than the British Y-type rubber dinghies, whose three-ply fabric could not take much wear and tear.
The joe climbed on to the wing strut and then lowered himself into the dinghy. Tiller watched him carefully and was pleased to see that he moved slowly and cautiously: it showed he had been in an inflatable before and knew how easy it was to overturn them.
When the joe was settled in the bows, Tiller undid the static line and began paddling the inflatable away from the Catalina, which immediately began revving its engines in preparation for taking off. The dispatcher gave the thumbs up through the door before shutting it.
The Catalina seemed to move across the surface of the water for an age, spray blossoming from its floats. As the engines reached a climax it slowly left the water and climbed away into the mist. The sound of the engines dwindled quickly and then faded completely.
Tiller thrust his Sten gun at the joe.
‘Don’t use it unless I say so,’ he said. The man nodded calmly.
Tiller took out the chart and a pocket compass. He wondered if the aircraft had been heard or seen. He had been told in the briefing that the area was not garrisoned by the Japanese but the loyalties of the natives who lived on the islands were unknown, and he needed to find shelter quickly. The sun, which appeared temporarily from the monsoon cloud, was burning the mist quickly off the water and visibility was improving all the time.
Tiller studied the chart and decided to make for the nearest land, Bulat Island, so that they could lie low until nightfall. The engine started first time and proved as silent as the Texan had predicted. The inflatable bounced across the smooth, oily water.
Bulat rose out of the water reassuringly quickly and within an hour they were ashore and the inflatable was under cover. They rested all that day without exchanging a word and as dusk arrived they ate a meal from their self-heating cans. In the last of the light Tiller called over the joe and traced with his finger where they would be going: through the Bulan Strait, which separated the islands of Batam and Bulan, then through a maze of smaller islands before crossing Main Strait to Bukum Island, which lay close to Singapore. There Tiller’s responsibilities ended, and the joe was on his own from then on. On the chart it did not seem far, not more than thirty miles, but Tiller had been warned that the Bulan Strait was narrow and treacherous and that Main Strait was the principal route for Japanese shipping in the area. The joe followed Tiller’s finger and nodded.
‘Not far,’ he said. He was quite calm and collected now, almost cheerful.
‘Far enough,’ Tiller replied and the joe flashed him a smile.
‘I know about the SBS,’ he said, pointing at Tiller’s shoulder flash. ‘You’ll get me there.’
They launched the dinghy, and Tiller paddled out a little way and then started the engine. Navigation was easy, for once night had fallen they headed straight for the great loom of light to the north of them: Singapore was at the extreme range of American bombers stationed in India and the Japanese still did not bother to take proper blackout precautions.
They reached Bukum just after midnight and Tiller even found the short, rickety pier he had been told to expect at its western extremity. The joe clambered on to it and Tiller handed him up his wireless and his haversack.
The joe bent down and stretched out his hand. ‘Very sorry about jump. Bad coward, yes?’
Tiller took his hand and wrung it warmly. ‘No, not coward at all,’ he said, and meant it. ‘You’re a very brave man. Good luck.’ He swung the inflatable away from the pier. He would have to hurry if he was to get back in time.
As the inflatable moved away Tiller looked back and saw the joe watching him go, a lonely figure, his arm raised in farewell. Tiller waved back, and realized then that he had not even known the man’s name.
14
The Supreme Commander, immaculately turned out in the tropical undress uniform of a full admiral, stopped in front of Tiller. ‘I know you, don’t I? Tiller, isn’t it?’
‘Malta, sir,’ Tiller replied. ‘Nineteen thirty-eight. Tug-of-war team from Ramillies.’
‘That’s right. We beat you, didn’t we? Glad to see so many Marines in the Group. Good luck to you, Colour Sergeant,’ and he moved on to inspect the rest of the Special Operations Group, which had been paraded before him. When he had finished he sprang lightly on to the bonnet of the jeep in which he had driven to the camp, and waved the parade forward.
‘Gather round, everyone.’
Officers and men broke ranks and clustered round the vehicle. Supremo, his hands characteristically on his hips, watched them assemble around him. He deliberately wore his cap at the same rakish angle that Noel Coward had worn his when Coward had played him in the film In Which We Serve, then being seen by packed service audiences all over Ceylon.
‘You know what the Special Operations Group is called by everyone in SEAC?’ he said when they had settled down to listen. ‘You’re called Mountbatten’s private navy.’
Loud laughter and cheering greeted this information, drowning out a wag at the back who pronounced it ‘better than being called ’is private parts, any road’.
Supremo held up his hand and silence returned.
‘I’m very proud to be so closely associated with you because you are doing a magnificent job. But the work has only just begun. The enemy are on the run in Burma. They have suffered a crushing defeat there, at Imphal. But they are far from beaten and now that the monsoon is coming to an end the fighting there will intensify.’
His audience murmured among themselves. Supremo waited until this news had been absorbed and then continued.
‘The Japanese high command have ordered their generals in Burma to plan what the Japanese call jikatsu jisen. That is, they must subsist on their own and fight on their own. That means they will fight to the death. They are not going to surrender.’
Someon
e next to Tiller muttered something obscene about Japanese tactics. Tiller thought jikatsu jisen sounded very much like the motto Major Jarrett had thought up for the Special Boat Squadron: ‘Sink or Swim’. In other words each canoe team, ultimately each individual, was on his own. It had summed up how the SBS had operated.
‘And our American allies are having a tough time clearing them from the Pacific and the Philippines. There is a lot to do. I can’t go into details, but I can tell you that part of the Japanese Mobile Fleet has sailed from its Pacific base.’
A murmur of interest rippled through the audience. The speaker waited until it had died down and then added: ‘The Japanese have a habit of doing the unexpected. So we must be on our toes, for we are fighting a brave and resourceful foe.’
The men were quiet now, watchful. They waited expectantly.
‘We have, of course, our own strategic plans for the area and the part you men of Special Operations Group have to play in these are vital. Possible landing beaches reconnoitred, intelligence gathered and the enemy harassed at every possible opportunity. Each of you is expert in one or more of these forms of warfare. I say to you: “Well done. Keep up the good work.”’
‘But today I also want to tell you the part I am playing in all this. I call it the three Ms: Morale, Monsoon and Malaria.’
As the Supreme Commander explained in his clipped English how he was raising morale, how advantageous it had been for his forces to fight through the monsoon and how he had cut the incidence of malaria, Tiller’s mind wandered back to the man he had left on that rickety wooden pier in the middle of the night. It took all sorts, he thought philosophically, to fight a war and wondered if there was any connection between the delivery of the joe to Singapore and the movement of part of the Japanese Mobile Fleet. His instinct told him that somehow there must be.