by Phil Ward
“Before the war, King Farouk was afraid someone would poison him,” Lt. Mandy said. “He hired Professor Twitterington to make sure his food was not poisoned. So the professor hired local women to taste the king’s food before every meal. Those in the know call him ‘Twitters the Taster.’
“Nowadays the professor is a major. He used to be employed by R. J. to look for messages written in secret ink. Now he works for A-Force as a forger.”
“That’s some story, Mandy.”
“Stranger than fiction,” Lt. Mandy laughed. “But then, we are used to that, right John?”
Sergeant Major Mike “March or Die” Mikkalis arrived. “You needed to see me, Colonel?”
“I’m flying out and not exactly sure when I’ll be back—probably not long,” Col. Randal said. “Captain McCloud may arrive with a group of Americans who have volunteered for Raiding Forces before I return.
“If that happens, you take charge of getting the troops desert-qualified until Mad Dog is medically released for full duty—then he’ll take over.”
“Rough,” the baby-blue-eyed former French Legionnaire asked, “or easy?”
“These men will all be U.S. Paratroopers,” Col. Randal said. “I need as many of them as we can get to make the cut—weed out any who don’t. But keep in mind, we need replacements.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
• • •
Major the Lady Jane Seaborn was in her bedroom reclining on the bed with a sketch pad. She was a talented artist, though she only drew for her own amusement.
Colonel John Randal walked in. “What’re you drawing, Jane?”
“Operational wings,” Lady Jane said. “Jock Lewis asked me to help him design them for the Special Air Service. I made a tracing from a cartouche in the Great Pyramid that is almost perfect.”
Col. Randal said, “What are operational wings?”
“Something to do with how many patrols an SAS man has gone on,” Lady Jane said. “Sounds like something out of Baden-Powell’s Scouting for Boys.
“I thought we might redesign our parachute wings using the same ancient Egyptian pattern, only with different colors.”
“Yeah, I like ’em,” Col. Randal said, studying her drawing. “Let’s do it.”
“SAS is going to use Cambridge blue as the background on theirs,” Lady Jane said, flipping the page. “I was thinking ours could be violet—my favorite color.”
She showed him her drawing of a pair of the wings with violet thread.”
“No,” Col. Randal said, “I don’t think so.”
“What color would you prefer, John?”
“Light infantry green.”
“Love it,” Lady Jane said. “Matches my eyes.”
Col. Randal said, “I didn’t know that.”
• • •
The Hudson was sitting with its motor ticking over. The team traveling out to Singapore was on board, along with Commander Ian Fleming and Red—they would be traveling as far as India. The plane was waiting for James “Baldie” Taylor to arrive before taking off for RAF Habbaniya.
When Jim came aboard, he passed out pigskin leather folders containing credentials for Colonel John Randal, Lieutenant Roy Kidd, ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx and King.
TO: ALL MILITARY/CIVIL OFFICERS.
THE BEARER OF THIS DOCUMENT IS ON SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT. RENDER ANY ASSISTANCE REQUESTED WITHOUT QUESTION. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCE IMPEDE THIS OFFICER IN THE PERFORMANCE OF HIS DUTIES. THERE ARE NO LIMITATIONS TO THIS ORDER.
SIGNED
ALAN BROOKE
FIELD MARSHAL
CHIEF OF THE IMPERIAL GENERAL STAFF
“Naturally, these are forgeries,” Jim said. “No one in Singapore will know the difference. Your mission is so vital that Colonel Clarke and I debated the merits of having the signature line signed by the Prime Minister.”
“Wow,” ex-Lt. Jaxx said. “A get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“That is exactly what it is,” Jim said. “Do not hesitate to produce it if and when needed. You are authorized the use of deadly force should anyone fail to comply.”
Col. Randal said, “General, I don’t have an officer to command Raiding Forces while I’m gone. Would you consider stepping in?”
“Glad to,” Jim said. “Admiral Ransom should be back in the next few days. Between the two of us, we should be able to manage.”
“I’m confident you can, sir,” Col. Randal said.
Jim said, “When you arrive, your contact will be Lieutenant Colonel Valentine Killery—SOE’s man in Singapore. He has been ordered to have your party standing by assembled, ready to board the Catalina for the return trip.
“Fly in, extract the Far East Combined Bureau people, come home—we have other business that requires your attention, Colonel.”
“My plan exactly, General.”
As Jim stood up to depart the aircraft he said, “Good luck.”
15
SINGAPORE TEA
Lieutenant Pamala Plum-Martin landed the Hudson at RAF Base Habbaniya, the site of the four-day siege by the Iraqi Army during the short-lived Anglo/Iraq War conducted by rebel officers of the Golden Square. Everyone on both sides (meaning the politicians) was doing their best to erase it from the history books.
The Iraqis did not want to advertise their humiliating military performance against the badly outnumbered British, and the British needed Iraqi oil and air bases to conduct the war against the Nazis. Both parties did their best to act like it had never happened.
Very few decorations were awarded to the defenders of RAF Habbaniya, and one of those was given to a man who had been recommended for court martial for dereliction of duty.
Except for experiencing a small number of air raids after the siege had already ended, the base was back to being a sleepy backwater. The big war had moved on. A truck was waiting to transfer Colonel John Randal’s party up the escarpment to Lake Habbaniyah, where the group was to board the Flying Clipper for the flight to India.
Because there were some unhappy Iraqi generals who blamed Col. Randal for the loss of a large number of gold bars they had looted from their own government and the shootout in the lobby of the British Overseas Airways Corporation (BOAC) when he rescued Red from the rebels, it was deemed advisable for him to remain incognito.
He kept his Ray-Ban sunglasses on at all times and wore his green Commando beret instead of the cut-down Australian bush hat he had worn during the battle.
Col. Randal boarded the Flying Clipper immediately upon arrival.
When the crew arrived, ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx, Lieutenant Roy Kidd and King sported the looks of kids in a candy shop. There were a dozen Clipper Girls plus Red to serve four passengers. The stewardesses, not having been briefed on the nature of the flight, understandably believed them to be VIPs—Commandos on some dangerous mission right out of a movie. Had to be to rate travel on a Flying Clipper reserved strictly for them.
The girls were impressed.
Normally, to qualify for a seat, a passenger needed to have a title, hold flag rank, or be an ambassador-level civil servant.
Having spent time hanging out with Major Sir Terry “Zorro” Stone in Cairo, ex-Lt. Jaxx had previously met several of the stewardesses. King knew a few too. Apparently Clipper Girls preferred men with a hard edge. The party started as soon as the giant airplane was airborne.
Col. Randal took up residence in the small, plush compartment that he and Major the Lady Jane Seaborn normally occupied when they traveled together. He lay down on one of the two lounges and went straight to sleep.
When he woke up, Red was there with a meal fit for a king. She reclined in the lounge next to him and they chatted for a while. The two had known each other since before OPERATION LOUNGE LIZARD, the raid on Rio Bonita, but this was the first time they had ever spent any considerable time alone talking. Col. Randal decided he liked her a lot.
Beneath Red’s cool “Keep Calm and Carry On” Clipper Girl exterior beat the heart of a
hell-raiser.
Col. Randal drifted back off to sleep—he had a lot of catching up to do—having been on continuous operations for longer than he could remember.
The missions all blurred together after a while, and Col. Randal had not realized how exhausted he was. He knew it is never a good idea for any commander of combat troops to be running on pure adrenalin for any extended length of time. Much less the commander of a special operations unit that operated exclusively behind enemy lines and lived by its wits. Except for meals, he pretty much slept the entire 2,500-mile flight.
The Flying Skipper splashed down in the Port of Chennai, India.
As the Clipper Girls waved good-bye, Col. Randal and his team deplaned and immediately boarded a Catalina for the final leg of the flight to Singapore. It was another long flight.
When the seaplane landed, a cutter manned by a pair of Royal Navy ratings was standing by to take them ashore. Lieutenant Colonel Valentine Killery, the SOE man in Singapore, was on board.
The plan was for the Catalina to refuel, then stand by to take the Bureau personnel on board for the return flight. Singapore appeared to be in flames. Long-range artillery was coming in and detonating. Fuel tanks were burning. Enemy aircraft could be seen dropping bombs over the town.
Singapore reminded Col. Randal of his arrival in Calais, only on a larger scale.
Behind them, the Catalina exploded in a massive orange fireball—a Japanese A6M Type O fighter swooped down and took out their way home in a single pass.
Ex-Lt. Jaxx said, “Uh-oh!”
King said, “So much for the Japs being bad pilots.”
Lt. Kidd asked, “Do we have a Plan B?”
“Negative. Yours was the final plane expected in,” Lt. Col. Killery said. “The last ship has either sailed or been sunk. Take a look at all the wrecks around the harbor.”
Col. Randal said, “Colonel, are you aware of the full extent of my orders?”
Lt. Col. Killery said, “I can surmise.”
“When we come ashore,” Col. Randal said, “Jack, you and Roy will stay with the cutter. Colonel, you stand by with them, ready to help us move the Bureau personnel down to the dock.”
“We cannot possibly fit twenty-four people plus your team in this cutter,” Lt. Col. Killery said. “And if we did, where would you go? It’s two thousand miles to India.”
“That is a problem,” Col. Randal said.
When the cutter pulled up to the dock, the scene on shore was something out of a psychotic nightmare or a Saturday matinee about the fall of Rome. The animals, at least the ones that did not eat people, had been released from the zoo to fend for themselves. When Col. Randal came up on to the street, a giraffe galloped by, drunken Australian soldiers were smashing the windows of store fronts with empty beer bottles, a naked Eurasian woman trotted past, artillery exploded close by.
“How long will it take you to assemble the Bureau people?”
“Everyone is waiting in a warehouse half a block from here,” Lt. Col. Killery said. “I have a detail of six Royal Marines guarding them.”
“How do I find Lavender Street?” Col. Randal asked.
“This is Lavender Street.”
“Which way to the Black Cat or the Lucky Lady?”
Lt. Col. Killery looked at Col. Randal as if he had lost his mind. “Three blocks up the street you will find the Lucky Lady on the right side. The Black Cat is three doors down.”
Col. Randal said, “Let’s go, King.”
The two set off through the swirling mass of humanity and animals running wild in the street. People did not appear to be afraid—they had all simply gone mad. A giant Indian Sikh in uniform with a turban was standing on a corner waving a curved sword at anyone who ventured near.
King shot him.
The Lucky Lady came into sight. It was the typical Far Eastern brothel masquerading as a bar, identifiable by a huge lighted sign out front and the words in English, “Girls, Girls, Girls.” Inside, patrons could buy a watered-down drink called “Singapore tea” for the girls, some of whom were quite beautiful.
When Col. Randal and King entered, the place was dark and mostly empty except for a dozen or so bored-looking Singapore Tea Girls. They had no cause for concern. The fall of the city held no terrors for them. Their clientele would simply switch from drunk Europeans to drunk Japanese—life would go on—business as usual.
With all the disorder in the street, the Lucky Lady was like the calm in the eye of a hurricane. The madam was a Malaysian woman of a certain age, smelling of cheap perfume. She greeted them at the door.
Col. Randal said, “Where can I find ‘Wino’ Muldoon?”
The madam pointed to a far back corner of the dark room, “He there.”
Mike “Wino” Muldoon was sitting at a table with three girls in slit silk skirts. The girls were sipping Singapore tea—Wino was drinking rum. There were a couple of empty bottles on the table.
“Go away,” Col. Randal said to the girls. The Tea Girls scattered like a covey of quail.
Wino looked up, bleary-eyed, “Who the bloody hell do . . . wait, I know you. You’re the Mad Major. What are you doing in scenic downtown Singapore?”
“Warthog and Mud Cat sent me,” Col. Randal said. “I have a mission for you.”
“Warthog and Mud Cat . . .”
“They work for Raiding Forces full-time now,” Col. Randal said. “Command ships—Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve—we’ve got one waiting for you.
“Do I have to wear a sailor suit?”
“I believe you asked me that once before, Wino.”
“That’s right,” Wino said, “I did . . . or maybe it was Mud Cat.”
“The problem is,” Col. Randal said, “we have to get out of Singapore first—your tugboat still afloat?”
“I got the Big Toot II hid in a jungle lagoon up a slough about twenty miles from here,” Wino said. “She’s victualed, topped off and ready to sail. Been sitting here debating heading up there, casting off and setting sail for far shores—only there’s still a lot a’ booze to be drunk and I can’t talk any of these girls into going with me.”
“Do you have a crew?”
“Oh, yeah,” Wino said. “They’re down at the Black Cat—I do my drinking alone, except for . . .”
“Let’s go,” Col. Randal said. “You hang around much longer you’ll be drinking sake.”
“Yes, sir, Major Randal, sir,” Wino said. “Ain’t never developed a taste for that evil juice.”
“Colonel Randal,” King said.
“Mad Colonel—don’t have the same snap,” Wino said, staggering to his feet.
“What’s the plan?”
“I have no idea,” Col. Randal said. “Counting on you for that, Wino.”
• • •
Colonel John Randal arrived back at the dock where Lieutenant Colonel Valentine Killery, ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx and Lieutenant Roy Kidd were waiting. He and King were in the Big Toot II’s whaleboat full of drunken tugboat sailors. There were two Singapore Tea Girls in slit silk dresses; the crew had brought them along from the Black Cat. The sailors refused to leave the girls behind.
“What in the world?” Lt. Col. Killery said.
“We need three more cutters, whaleboats or other small launches,” Col. Randal said, stepping ashore. We’re going to get our passengers.”
Lt. Kidd and ex-Lt. Jaxx took the two sailors from the cutter that had brought them ashore. They searched the dock area. Small craft of all kinds were abandoned everywhere because they were worthless for escape. The sailors picked out three, loaded extra cans of fuel, which they took off other abandoned boats, and were back within thirty minutes.
By then Col. Randal and Lt. Col. Killery had departed for the warehouse where the Far East Bureau personnel were waiting.
The Royal Marines guarding the building allowed them inside, then quickly shut the door. In the warehouse were twenty-four civilian personnel scared out of their wits. Col. Randal noted the Marin
es were all armed with Thompson submachine guns and handled them like they knew how to use them.
Lt. Col. Killery had everyone gather around.
“This is Colonel Randal. You may have heard of some of his exploits—the Prime Minister personally hand-picked him to fly out to Singapore to escort you back to the UK.”
Col. Randal said, “The Catalina that was to fly us to India was destroyed by a Jap A6M Zero shortly after we landed.”
A moan came from the group and some of the people began to cry. They knew the fate that awaited them if captured. A report had come in that morning, confirmed by their own intercepts, that the Japanese had wrapped two hundred prisoners in barbed wire, poured gasoline on them, then lit the fuel off.
The intelligence report stated the Japanese laughed as the flaming prisoners ran around screaming—human torches.
“However, there is a fallback plan,” Col. Randal said. “We have a ship hidden twenty miles up the coast from here. What is going to happen next is we are going to depart here for the dock. Once there, you will be broken down into parties and board small boats for the trip along the coast to where the ship is located.
“Do everything I tell you and we can all make it out of here,” Col. Randal said. “Cross me and I’m authorized to shoot any member of the Bureau I deem a threat to the group. My job is to get you home safe—I’m not about to let anything or anyone stand in the way of making that happen.
“Is that clear?”
“Clear,” the group said in unison, sounding hopeful but not entirely convinced—the shooting people part not being lost on anyone.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“CLEAR!”
“All right, then,” Col. Randal said. “I can tell we’re going to get along just fine.”
Lt. Col. Killery said, “Leave all of your luggage here except for stout shoes or jackets to wear at night. We will be departing this building in ten minutes.”
“If anyone is in possession of any classified material, I want it right now.”
As the group was going through their luggage, Col. Randal had a quiet word with the corporal in charge of the Royal Marine security detail. He showed him the forged order in the pigskin credentials case. “Escort the party to the dock when we move out. Instruct your men that in the event anyone attempts to break away from the group for any reason—shoot ’em.”