by Phil Ward
“Sir!”
“Inform your Marines,” Col. Randal said, “I’ll be taking them out with us—you’re working for me now.”
“Yes, sir!”
• • •
Night fell. In the tropics, when the sun goes down it gets dark fast. There is
very little in between day and night. The little convoy of boats cast off and headed along the shore, traveling a half mile out to sea. No one, meaning any Japanese who had cut through the jungle to the coast, could see them.
Behind them, Singapore had all its searchlights sweeping the sky in a forlorn hope of shooting down Nip aircraft that flew over from time to time indeterminately unloading strings of bombs. The Japanese were not launching a coordinated, all-out air attack. Their air raids were intended merely to harass and terrorize.
Lt. Col. Killery was in the lead whaler with Col. Randal and Mike “Wino” Muldoon.
He said, “General Percival is planning to surrender the city tomorrow. He and Piggy Heath have been arguing about the timing for days now.”
“Piggy Heath,” Col. Randal said. “The general who commanded the 5th Indian Division in Abyssinia—had several car crashes—one into a camel?”
“That would be Piggy,” Lt. Col. Killery said. “He has date-of-rank as a lieutenant general on Percival by a few days but is subordinate—been at each other’s throats since he arrived. The two never could come to any agreement on what tactics to use to defend against the Japs—so nothing much was ever done.
“The Nips’ strategy of combining speed with savagery seemed to paralyze the two generals’ brains.
“A lot of good men are going to pay for their clash of egos and inability to adjust to the Japs’ tactics. There’s no way we should have lost this bloody thing.”
“A timid commander kills more of his men than a reckless commander,” Col. Randal said, quoting Sun Tzu, as he glanced back at the searchlights over Singapore. The swaying beams reminded him of a Hollywood premiere.
Only Singapore was not a movie.
After two hours, Wino turned in toward shore. They beached next to a stream; the Big Toot II was concealed not far away.
“We got the tug anchored about a quarter-mile upstream,” Wino said. “Wait here, Colonel, while I take my boys up there to get her. We can load the passengers on board from the beach.”
“Roger,” Col. Randal said.
Time stood still after the tugboat crew departed. The dense jungle grew almost down to the water. It seemed dark and ominous—unless you had spent as much time in a jungle as Col. Randal had. To him the jungle was a safety buffer—there was zero likelihood any Japanese military unit of any size would force their way through it when their objective was Singapore.
The whaleboat arrived.
Wino said, “There be lights on the Toot—somebody’s on board and it ain’t anybody we know.”
So much for the jungle being a safe buffer. A Japanese recon patrol must have worked its way down the watercourse to investigate the possibility of a larger force being able to reach the beach in order to use it as a high speed avenue of approach to march on Singapore.
“How many men?” Col. Randal asked.
“Hard to say,” Wino said. “We saw the lights up ahead through the jungle and immediately cut the motor on the whaler. Watched a while, but we couldn’t tell much.”
Col. Randal called a council of war. “Wino, put your crew in the whaler. I’ll be on board with you.
“Jack, Roy and King, follow in the cutter with four Marines—Corporal, you pick the three men you want to come with us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Colonel Killery,” Col. Randal said, “you stay here with the rest of the party and two Marines. Wait for the tug.
“You might not want to mention the fact that Japs are aboard it at the moment—you understand your orders if we do not return?”
“I do, Colonel.”
“Wino,” Col. Randal said, “let’s ease up to the Big Toot and see if we can’t sort this out.”
The whaler cast off with four of the tug men rowing. The night was hot—one hundred percent humidity. The knowledge that the enemy was aboard the tugboat, their only way out of Malaysia, did not make the trip any more enjoyable.
The whaler was idling through a teeming jungle that was emitting all kinds of strange sounds that no one could identify. It was like a flashback for Col. Randal—to when he was on patrol sneaking up on a known encampment of Huk bandits. The sounds were reassuring—no one was out there moving around in the dark. If there had been, the jungle would have been dead quiet.
Col. Randal saw the lights at the same time Wino cut the motor and pulled the whaler up against the bank. He climbed out and walked back to the trailing boat. “I’ll make a quick recon—stay here.”
The ground was soft but not muddy. Col. Randal eased his way through the nipa palms. The trees were thirty feet tall. There was not a lot of underbrush in the way of ground palms.
After traveling about fifty yards, he arrived at the bank of the lagoon. Col. Randal could see the tug anchored and tied off to the bank on the far side, approximately one hundred yards across the water. There was a string of light bulbs burning, but he could detect no movement.
When he returned to the boats, he called everyone together on the bank. “Lights are on, but no one is moving around. You have any liquor stashed on the tug, Wino?”
“Tug men can’t function without their daily ration of rum, Colonel—you know that.”
“What could I have possibly been thinking?” Col. Randal said. “The Japs may have discovered the booze—with any luck they’re passed out drunk.”
“On the other hand, they might have heard your motor the first time you came up here and are waiting in ambush.”
“That ain’t good,” Wino said.
“We’re going to proceed on the second possibility,” Col. Randal said. “Roy, take the corporal and his Marines . . . move around through the jungle skirting the lagoon and come up on the tug from landside.
“Jack, you, King and I will swim across the lagoon, climb up the crash tires mounted on the side of the tug—take out everyone onboard with our silenced High Standard .22s.
“Roy, if you hear firing, come on board quick and back us up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wino,” Col. Randal said, “you wait here. King will swim back to bring you forward after we take down the tug.”
“What if I hear gunfire?” Wino asked.
“Wait one hour,” Col. Randal said. “We either win this right now here tonight or the people back on the beach are done for.”
“Done for?”
“I gave Killery strict orders to shoot the civilians if we’re not back by sunrise.” Col. Randal said. “Don’t ask me why—it’s classified. I’m only telling you so you’ll understand why there’s firing from the beach if you’re not back by daybreak.”
“I’ll be hoping there ain’t any bloody firing,” Wino said. “In either direction.”
“If you fail to hear from me in one hour, Wino,” Col. Randal said, “pick up Colonel Killery and the two Marines. After that, you’re on your own—this never happened.”
“I can see you ain’t mellowed none, Colonel,” Wino said, “from our Gold Coast pirate days.”
“Move out, Roy,” Col. Randal ordered. “I’ll give you a twenty-minute head start.”
The wait seemed like twenty hours. When the lime green hands on Col. Randal’s Rolex watch finally showed the time had expired, he said, “Follow me.”
The three Raiders crept through the nipa palm trees to the edge of the lagoon. The tug was still lit up. As before, there was no sign of movement on deck.
“Think you can swim that far, Jack?” Col. Randal whispered as he checked the action on his .22 caliber High Standard to make sure a round was in the chamber.
“I’ve been practicing with Lady Jane and Rocky’s crew mornings,” ex-Lt. Jaxx said softly as he was checking his pistol.
“I’m always dead last on the swims, but it’s a two-mile race. This lagoon’s a snap, sir.”
“That’s good to know,” Col. Randal said. “I thought you’d given up on working out with the girls after the first one nearly killed you.”
“Rocky said I could have her,” ex-Lt. Jaxx said, “if I could catch her, sir.”
“Rocky said that?”
“Affirmative.”
King said, “No wonder you keep going through all that torture every morning—thought you were crazy.”
“I am,” ex-Lt. Jaxx said. “Rocky has a way of doing that.”
“You need to figure out some way to cheat, Jack,” Col. Randal said.
“OK—let’s do this.”
• • •
Colonel John Randal, ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx and King slipped into the water. The three began to silently breaststroke their way toward the Big Toot II, heads up—eyes on the target.
Even the water felt warm.
Nothing was moving on the boat. That seemed strange. Someone had turned the lights on.
Col. Randal did not really believe they were going to find the Japs passed out drunk.
In no time the three Raiders were up against the side of the tug holding on to the old truck tires Wino had mounted on the sides to act as crash bumpers. Ex-Lt. Jaxx was on the left—he would be responsible for clearing the bow (or the mug deck, as tugboat men called it). Col. Randal was in the middle and he was going to be responsible for clearing the mid-ship area, while King, on the right, was tasked with securing the stern.
Acting as one, the Raiders began climbing. Before they could reach the deck, firing broke out from the far side—Thompson submachine guns and Lt. Kidd’s distinctive KZ-383.
There was no return fire.
By the time Col. Randal swung over the top, Lt. Kidd was there standing on the far side of the tug waiting for them. Without any warning, a Japanese soldier armed with a gleaming samurai sword sprinted up the ladder from below, bursting out on the deck. He was screaming “BANZAI!”
Col. Randal commenced firing instantly, working the trigger on the High Standard Military Model D as fast as he could, stitching the Jap—but the tiny .22 caliber rounds were having no noticeable effect. King was firing also. Then ex-Lt. Jaxx opened the instant he had a clear shot.
The one-man banzai charge was not slowing—while things seemed to be taking place in slow motion, the attack was happening in the blink of an eye. It was like a bad dream—the Japanese swordsman would not go down.
Then Lt. Kidd engaged from the shore with his KZ-383—a finely made Czechoslovakian weapon that literally spewed 9mm rounds, almost cutting the Japanese in half. The Nip fell dead at Col. Randal’s feet, still clutching his samurai sword in both hands.
Ex-Lt. Jaxx said, “That was intense.”
Col. Randal changed the empty magazine on his High Standard and swapped it for his Colt .38 Super—silence not being an issue now.
“Colonel,” Lt. Kidd said, “I think you’re going want to take a look at what we found over here.”
“Let’s finish clearing the tug first, Roy,” Col. Randal said. Backed up by ex-Lt. Jaxx, he started down below. King and Lt. Kidd followed, weapons at the ready.
It was deserted. There were empty bottles rolling on the deck. The Japanese had discovered the Big Toot II’s rum.
They had not passed out drunk.
“OK, Roy,” Col. Randal said, “what is it you want to show me?”
“We killed five bad guys, sir,” Lt. Kidd said. “They were having bayonet practice.”
“Bayonet practice?”
“Yes, sir,” Lt. Kidd said. “That’s what I need you to see.”
Col. Randal followed him off the tug to the bank of the lagoon. There were five dead Japanese soldiers sprawled on the ground. The Royal Marines were standing over them fingering their Thompson submachine guns.
Tied to the trunks of trees were two dead Malaysian natives—they looked like pincushions.
“I think,” Lt. Kidd said, “I could really hate Japs—they were laughing when we came upon them, sir.”
“I already do,” ex-Lt. Jaxx said.
“King,” Col. Randal said, “go tell Wino it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge.”
16
KILL MERLIN
The BIG TOOT II was hell in a very small place. The tugboat had been steaming
for four days, dodging Japanese submarines, surface craft, enemy air, and hoping to come across a friendly ship. Only they never saw any enemy submarines, surface craft or airplanes—and not a single friendly ship or plane.
Colonel John Randal wondered if maybe everyone had been killed, sunk or had shot each other down and the tugboat was the last ship on the planet. You begin to think things like that when there are over forty people crammed in a small tugboat that had never been designed to carry passengers or make long voyages. And with the rations running out, the water going fast—sanitation out of control, the people onboard the Big Toot II were living a slow-motion nightmare.
The ocean was big and empty.
Most of the passengers had been seasick the entire voyage. More than a few of them were so bad off it was thought possible they might die. The crew was in particular distress; not a drop of liquor to be had since they left Singapore. The Japs had drunk it all. Some of the tugboat’s crew was prostrate, suffering symptoms of advanced alcohol withdrawal.
The Big Toot II plowed steadily on and the tropical sun beat down.
Wino was steering for Sri Lanka. Steaming at ten knots, they should make it in six days, which meant they had two more days of sailing left—but the tug would be running on fumes by that time. The Big Toot II was sending out distress signals more or less nonstop, but there had been no response. Col. Randal had the radio operator continually transmit the letters GF—the agreed-upon emergency signal prior to the mission—meaning GOLDEN FLEECE.
At this point in the odyssey, some on board would welcome the sight of a Japanese destroyer flying a Rising Sun flag.
Ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx sang out, “Aircraft eleven ’o clock—looks like a Catalina PBY.”
The plane could just as easily be a Japanese flying boat—all they could see was a speck on the crystal blue horizon.
“If that’s an enemy aircraft,” Col. Randal ordered his Raiders and the Marines, “when it lands, on my command, open fire—concentrating on the cockpit. Give it everything you’ve got.
“Then you ram it, Wino.”
“You lubbers get forward, cut those tires away from the mug deck,” Wino shouted to his crew. Those tug crewmen who were able to stand stumbled forward and went to work slashing the ropes.
“When I hit that Jap plane, I plan to cut it in half,” Wino said. “Machine-gun the survivors in the water, Colonel.”
In thirty years as a sailor, this was his worst voyage—and Wino wanted payback.
“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” Col. Randal said. He had spotted a red-over-green set of flares fired from the aircraft—the traditional Commando signal of success. The colors were not a coincidence.
Someone knew who they were.
“Consolidated PBY Catalina,” ex-Lt. Jaxx said. “Air-Sea rescue, sir.”
As word got around, people began streaming up from below. The passengers were screaming, crying and cheering when the big, beautiful PBY rescue airplane touched down in the ocean. Some were doing all three at the same time.
A large, motorized rubber raft was launched from the Catalina. It came alongside. A U.S. Navy lieutenant in khakis and a billed officer’s hat boarded the tug.
He reported to Col. Randal, “Sir, Lieutenant Jackson—your receiver must be malfunctioning. We can hear your GF call, but you have not been acknowledging our response.”
“Anything’s possible on the Big Toot, Lieutenant,” Col. Randal said. “She’s not designed for open-sea sailing. This has been a rough trip.”
Lt. Jackson said, “There’s a Royal Navy Comm
ander Fleming with some God-high security clearance who has been driving us crazy to find you. I’m to contact him immediately with a report on the status of your mission—what is your mission, sir?”
“That’s classified,” Col. Randal said. “You can inform the commander I have all the packages he sent me to collect—make sure you say all.”
“Yes, sir,” Lt. Jackson said. “I’m to begin transferring your people immediately. How many will that be?”
“Twenty-four civilians, ten military, the crew of the tug,” Col. Randal said, “and two Singapore Tea Girls.”
“Colonel, the PBY can’t take off with that many people on board,” Lt. Jackson said.
Wino said, “You ain’t taking my bloody crew anywhere, Mr. U.S. Navy. We’re sailing the Toot to Sri Lanka—we made it this far—we’re going all the way.
“Send over every drop of rum you got on that airplane of yours and some rations, sonny. We don’t need that much food.”
Lt. Jackson said, “We don’t have any rum, sir. Just a small flask of alcohol for medicinal purposes.”
“Get that medicine over here and be quick about it,” Wino ordered. “We have sick men onboard—meaning me.”
“Yes, sir,” Lt. Jackson said. “There’s a Royal Navy destroyer en route to arrive within the hour. It will escort you the rest of the way to port. Maybe they have rum on board, Skipper.”
“Royal Navy, you can bet they do,” Wino said. “Hardest-drinking sailors on the seven seas.”
As they were talking, the first load of passengers was already making the transition to the Catalina PBY. It took four trips to transfer everyone.
Before he climbed aboard with the last group to cross, Col. Randal said, “We’ll probably be gone by the time you arrive in Sri Lanka, Wino. Pay off your crew—Colonel Killery will pick up the tab—and arrange to sell your tug courtesy of an organization that does not officially exist.”
“Same deal as last time, Colonel?” Wino asked. “I made out like a bandit on that one.”