A Dawn Like Thunder

by Douglas Reeman

  Rice came back with his small folding cup in his hand. ‘Muddy.’

  Tucker tipped a few drops of brandy in it. ‘This’ll do the trick.’

  Napier was raising himself on one elbow, his sweat showing what the effort cost him. ‘Let me see the map.’ He peered down at it as Tucker unfolded it again. ‘We should follow the bay. Better chance. Keep well clear of Rangoon and the inland roads.’ He groaned suddenly, ‘Oh, my God!’

  Tucker supported his shoulder. Come on, my son. Keep the grey matter working, like they taught you as an officer. Hang on, don’t give in to it.

  Napier twisted round to look at him. ‘You knew my brother, didn’t you?’ He sounded quite calm, normal.

  Tucker said casually, ‘Quite well. Liked him, more than I can say for some.’

  Napier smiled. ‘You’re quite a card yourself!’

  Rice hissed, ‘Japs, three of ’em!’ He seemed unable to move. ‘Coming up the hill!’ He stared round, his eyes wild. ‘What’ll we do?’

  Tucker drew his revolver and put Napier’s in his right hand. ‘You know what they told us. Take one with you!’

  Then the rain started, noisy, violent, enveloping. Rice gasped, ‘Christ, they’ve run for cover! Don’t like the rain!’ He sounded crazy with relief.

  Napier had his mouth open for the rain, the downpour soaking his bandage and making the blood look fresh, as if it had just happened.

  He said softly, ‘Don’t let them take me alive.’

  Tucker patted his arm and thrust the pistol into his waistband. ‘Try and rest. I’ll have a quiet poke around when the rain eases off.’

  Rice heard him and said, ‘You’ll come back, won’t you?’

  Tucker forced a grin. ‘While there’s still some brandy left!’

  Poor bastards, he thought. One scared out of his marbles and the other more afraid of letting the side down than of dying. He thought suddenly of Jamie Ross when he had briefed the chariot crews before that last Norwegian raid. ‘Go in and do the job. No heroics, understood? You’re no use to me with your arse blown off!’ He could recall it as if it was yesterday. He reached out to brush some wet hair from Napier’s eyes. They had all laughed, except one, David Napier. He had been afraid, but nobody had realized it. Until it had been too late.

  As the day wore on, they felt the first pangs of hunger. Tucker found a bar of chocolate wrapped in a waterproof bag, but it had melted so much that he had to scrape off the wrapping paper with his knife. He never even considered that the last time he had used the knife had been to kill the sentry.

  They could have been on a desert island, or on top of the world. Nothing moved, and there was no sign of voices or vehicles when the rain eventually stopped in its usual abrupt way.

  He examined his watch and his small compass. It would not do to creep off in the wrong direction. He had heard of a squaddie who had done that in the desert when his squadron of tanks had laagered up for the night. With the usual sense of cleanliness peculiar to the desert army, the man had walked away from the tanks to ease the demands of nature. He was never seen again, and had probably walked in circles until his strength had given out, and the desert had claimed another victim.

  He checked his revolver last, and said, ‘Keep an eye on things, Nick.’ He glanced at the sub-lieutenant. ‘He’s passed out again. We’ll let him be.’

  Rice said, ‘I’ll come with you, if you like.’

  Tucker clapped him on the shoulder. He could feel his apprehension, the fear of being left alone. Like the last one to die in a drifting lifeboat. Alone with a quiet crew of corpses.

  As he left the hiding-place, Tucker saw the sea fully for the first time, framed by two hills where they must have floundered ashore. Once he looked back, but saw nothing to reveal where his companions were hidden.

  His feet slithered on wet leaves and running trails of mud. It was slow going. He thought about Napier. Suppose they could not find help for him?

  Something crackled and he swung round, the pistol already at waist level. A youth was squatting beneath a tree, his body covered with what looked like an old army raincoat. He was quite young, about fifteen, and obviously unafraid of Tucker’s gun and appearance.

  Tucker held up one hand. ‘Friend.’

  The youth nodded, but regarded him gravely without speaking.

  Tucker tried again. ‘You friend?’

  The youth grinned, his teeth very white against his brown features. ‘Yes, friend. You soldier?’

  And so it went on. When Tucker told him his name and asked him for his, the youth replied with such a mouthful that Tucker said, ‘I shall call you Mango. It’s as near as I can get!’

  The youth quivered with laughter. ‘Mango!’

  Tucker made eating motions. ‘Food? There are three of us.’ If he was taking a chance, it was too late now.

  The youth stood up and bowed. ‘I see you in water. Not tell Nippon soldier.’

  Tucker tensed. ‘Where are they?’

  He shrugged. ‘Gone now. To my village. You wait, please. I fetch you when night come.’

  Tucker knew better than to try to follow him as he slipped away amongst the dripping leaves. He probably had ears in the back of his head.

  The others were waiting for him. Napier seemed excited. ‘Mango, eh? First names already, or perhaps second!’

  Rice was doubtful. ‘You trusted him? Just like that? He’s probably rabbiting to the Nips right now!’

  Tucker massaged his eyes. ‘He saw us come ashore. He could have blown the horn on us then, might even have got a reward.’ He looked at the officer. ‘He’s taking us to his village. We might get your wound fixed up.’

  Napier slumped back again. ‘If not, you must go on without me.’

  Tucker groaned. ‘Don’t you start. We’re here, and we’re going to get away, right?’ He saw them nod in unison, the only thing they had done together since it had all started.

  True to his word, the youth returned as darkness closed in from the sea. As a sign of good faith he brought a bowl of rice and some kind of sliced fish. He seemed surprised that the three of them were baffled by chopsticks.

  Tucker said, ‘Excuse my manners, mate,’ and picked up the food with his fingers. ‘A nice bag of rock and chips would go down a treat right now!’

  Then, in single file, they went down the hillside, Tucker carrying the officer over his shoulder like a sack. Rice brought up the rear, his eyes everywhere as if he expected a Jap behind each piece of cover. They came to a road, little more than a rain-rutted track, but left it to take another path through the trees. It was rough going, and Tucker was afraid that Napier might cry out with each savage jolt to his shoulder. But he had seen tyre tracks on the road. It was not as safe as all that, and their guide was well aware of it.

  On another occasion when they paused to regain their breath, they heard a far-off, chilling howl, followed by several more from different angles. Like hyenas. Their young guide, in whispers and sign language, explained that the cries were Japanese sentries at the various checkpoints on the road, calling to one another without making any attempt to conceal their whereabouts. It sent shivers up Tucker’s spine when he considered how close they were. He eased Napier’s body on to his shoulder again and waited for Mango to lead on. God knew if they would ever find their hiding place again, but without Mango they would never even have reached this far.

  And then suddenly they reached the village, a collection of huts and dangling fishing nets which seemed to run directly down to a river. Tucker sniffed the warm damp air. The river led to the sea. It was all they had to hold on to.

  Several members of the village were present and one, obviously the headman, embraced their guide warmly and then said in good but slightly fractured English, ‘My son tells me of your plight.’ He studied Napier as they laid him on some rushes. A pot was bubbling in one corner, and the headman said, ‘We will use a local balm on your friend’s arm.’ He bent over and ripped open the bandage. Then he sniffed the r
aw wound for several seconds. ‘Maybe in time. Save arm.’

  Napier closed his eyes and groaned. ‘Not that!’

  Tucker knelt beside him. ‘It may do the trick. Give it a go, eh?’

  The headman said, ‘Be strong.’ Then in a sharper tone to Rice and Tucker, ‘Hold him.’

  Napier fainted before they had completed cleaning the wound. Every touch must have been like a hot iron, each movement an agony. Then they brought the sickly-smelling pot and ladled the thick mixture on to his arm where the bayonet had driven into the muscle and flesh. Bandages were brought and the wound rebound with a strange-looking leaf between it and the skin.

  Tucker glanced around at the lined, impassive faces. All fishermen, who would be killed without mercy if the Japs discovered what they were doing.

  They brought more fish and rice, and a fresh-tasting green tea which was even more welcome. They all ate, even Napier.

  Then the others departed, and Tucker guessed they would be going to prepare their boats for an early start.

  The headman waited until they had finished, and seemed surprised when Tucker offered him one of the gold sovereigns. But he took it without comment and Tucker wondered if it had happened before. The headman said, ‘Tomorrow you hide, get back strength. Then we talk about escape.’

  Napier whispered, ‘Escape? How?’

  Rice snapped, ‘Don’t ask, just let him get us out of here!’

  ‘My boy will look after you.’ He spoke his name, but it still sounded like ‘Mango’.

  He continued in the same mellow voice, ‘My people tell me about your underwater ship. Big explosion.’ He made a gesture like a fish darting through water. ‘Torpedo, yes?’

  ‘We don’t know.’ There was no point in revealing their role with the chariot. The headman probably imagined that a submarine had somehow managed to move so close inshore, and had fired on the grounded freighter.

  The headman’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. ‘Torpedo.’ He sounded definite.

  Napier’s mind was becoming clearer. He said, ‘How could the Japs have seen Turquoise? It’s not possible.’

  The headman shook his head while he waited for his son to serve more tea. ‘You not understand. It was another submarine. I have seen it.’

  He unfolded himself and stood up. ‘I leave you here. You will be hidden if Nippon soldier comes. I must go and pray now with my fishermen.’

  ‘What a dignified old bloke.’ Tucker glanced around the hut. ‘Makes me feel a right scruff.’

  Rice asked, ‘Could there be a sub around here?’

  Napier frowned. ‘No reports of one. Most Jap subs are being sent to the Pacific to fight the Yanks.’

  Tucker recalled the briefing, and said, ‘That’s what I understood, too.’

  In the silence that followed, Napier touched his shoulder and winced. ‘It’s funny, but this feels easier. I wonder how they know . . .’

  Tucker leaned back against the wall, his hands behind his head. Napier thought the headman was mistaken, not used to such weapons of war. Tucker considered the man’s ageless face, his authority and compassion. Don’t you believe it, my son! He said, ‘I’ll stand the first watch, right?’

  Napier sighed. ‘Don’t you trust them?’

  Tucker grinned and loosened his revolver. ‘The Andrew taught me not to trust anyone, sir!’

  He saw the headman’s son curled up by the stove. ‘’Cept him, of course!’ But the others were asleep.

  The four days that followed seemed endless and unreal to Tucker and his companions. It was like being forgotten, written off by the outside world while they waited for something to happen. Most of the fishing boats had sailed and the village itself seemed all but deserted. Very rarely did someone pass their new hiding place, and it was obvious that they had been warned to avoid any contact whatever. A few women and some children had passed within yards of it with neither a glance nor any sign of curiosity. As though they were invisible.

  The new hiding place was a long, low-roofed shed with barely enough room to move about. It was filled with spars and old rigging, fragments of fishing net and odd items of boat gear: fishermen were great hoarders, and strongly resented the necessity of docking their craft, thereby losing valuable time at sea.

  Only Mango was a regular visitor, always with a ready smile and his usual mixture of odd English phrases and sign language. The one good thing had been Napier’s improvement. Although he was still very weak from his wound and from loss of blood, the headman’s remedy had worked wonders for him.

  On this particular afternoon, Tucker was squatting by a boarded-up window, which he had loosened to give him a restricted view of the river. Once, he had made to draw his knife to prise open another plank, and was reminded of Napier’s returning interest and authority when he touched his empty belt.

  It had been Napier’s suggestion that they bury their diver’s knives and the other incriminating evidence like blood-chits, hacksaw blades and any other item that might make things worse for them if they were captured. It made good sense, Tucker realized, and he was thankful to see in Napier’s clarity of thought a returning will to survive.

  The headman visited them only once, and had touched vaguely on the subject of escaping. A boat would be contacted very shortly when the fishermen were in a certain area. The boat in question was not used for fishing, and the owner might be prepared to help them for payment, rather than out of any patriotic sense of duty.

  Napier had hit on it when he had suggested that this mysterious owner was probably a smuggler. It was a risky trade at any time, but in the middle of the Japanese occupation it would be doubly so. If it could be arranged, the boat would carry them to a rendezvous where another ‘trader’ would take them to a place of safety. It was little enough to go on, but it was all they had.

  Rice was smoking, having persuaded the youth to bring him some cigarettes and matches. Unlike most sailors, Tucker himself did not smoke, but it was worth it to see Rice so unusually relaxed. At least it would keep him quiet.

  Napier said, ‘I think we should hear something soon. Maybe later when they bring us the food.’ He looked very young and fresh, considering how rough they were living. Mango had brought soap and a cut-throat razor, a relic of the British garrison hereabouts, and after a careful start they had each shaved for the first time.

  Tucker thought of his home again, and wondered if the news had reached them. A lot of young faces had vanished from those familiar streets; people had even begun to take it for granted. Until it came to the front door.

  He felt his eyes drooping and Napier said, ‘Get your head down. I’ve got the weight.’

  Eating fish and rice without any kind of exercise would make him as fat as a pig, he thought. But he smiled to himself nonetheless. Napier was an officer again.

  He could only have been asleep for minutes when he felt Rice jerking at his arm.

  Napier was on his knees with his face to a crack, a bar of sunlight across his eyes like a silk cord. He glanced round at them. ‘A shot, or shots, I’m not sure!’

  Tucker dragged out his revolver, his mouth suddenly dry. It was all so quiet and still, and they were talking of escape. Nothing could go wrong now.

  He pressed his face to the boards. The river was moving unhurriedly; a few seabirds were crouching on an upturned boat. Nothing.

  ‘Maybe it was on the road. A patrol, maybe.’

  Napier pressed himself closer to the crack, and winced with the effort. ‘No. It was closer. From the village.’

  Rice said, ‘I can smell smoke!’

  They could all smell it now. Napier dragged himself upright by one of the centre supports until his hair was brushing the roof. ‘We must get out. Something’s happened. We’d be trapped in here.’

  Tucker stared at him for several seconds. Then he pushed the revolver into his waistband and said, ‘I agree. But you’re not fit to walk, not yet anyway.’

  The sunlight played across Napier’s eyes again. Gratitude
, or perhaps shame for being so helpless. But all he said was, ‘Not for much longer!’

  Tucker said, ‘Open the bloody door, Nick.’ Then he hoisted Napier over his shoulder and ducked through the low entrance, momentarily blinded by the river’s reflected glare.

  Rice had his gun in his hand and seemed to be dragging his heels. ‘Suppose they come to look for us, to bring us food an’ that?’

  Napier grunted with pain. ‘Keep going, for God’s sake! It might be somebody else!’

  Very slowly, they made their way towards the village, using the path of trodden grass their visitors had used to approach the old shed.

  The smell of smoke was stronger and more acrid, and for the first time Tucker saw it drifting above the nearest huts like something solid.

  He said, ‘It’s the place where they fixed your wound.’ He felt Napier shifting against him, trying to see what was happening.

  Rice was gulping air like a drowning man, his pistol moving from left to right like a talisman. He gasped, ‘If we find Mango . . .’

  He fell silent as Tucker said harshly, ‘He can’t help.’ It came out like a sob. ‘Not any more.’ With great care he lowered Napier to the ground and waited for him to find his balance, then he walked to the sprawled body lying across the track and stood looking down at it, knowing he would never forget or forgive.

  Someone must have discovered that the youth was carrying food and cigarettes to unknown British servicemen. The Japs had stripped him naked and beaten him until his body was bleeding and bruised all over. Either he had been unable to answer their questions or, knowing his simple loyalty, it seemed likely that he had refused. They had tortured him with a heated blade, most likely a bayonet, on his face, his shoulders and his genitals. Tired of it, they had shot him through the heart.

  Flames and sparks shot from a nearby roof and, as the hut exploded into flames, two Japanese soldiers ran on to the track. Tucker noticed that they were both laughing, their small pot-like helmets bouncing up and down as they scampered away from the flames, more like two schoolboys playing a prank than men who had brutally tortured and then killed a defenceless boy with an unpronounceable name.