Tsao regarded him with the same opaque stare. ‘I am sorry for the delay. It was unusual.’ He looked directly at Ross. ‘This time there was an officer with them. Young and eager. He wanted to see everything. Usually it is a formality – they know the Success like one of their own.’ He glanced up at the tall funnel and the plume of smoke that drifted past the flapping flag of the Rising Sun at the gaff. ‘Which she is, of course.’
He showed no sign of anxiety, any more than when the patrol-boat had been sighted tearing down on them, a great moustache of white foam bursting beneath her stem. He had merely directed them below, to the ‘safe place’, a small, cramped addition welded to one of the coal-bunkers. It was right above the boiler-room and it had been like a sealed oven; at times the concealment had been almost unbearable, especially as they did not know what was happening.
Tsao said, ‘You will be able to clean yourselves soon. Tomorrow we will reach Keppel Harbour. Then we shall see.’
Ross glanced up in time to see the tug’s master step back from the glass screen. What must he have felt when the Japanese had come aboard? What must he always think when he saw them on his own streets, free to do whatever they liked while his own sister was forced into prostitution?
And how much would it take to make just one of the crew betray them? He stared at the tug-master’s clenched fist on the rail, all that was visible now that he had stepped back from view. The fist opened slightly and after the smallest hesitation gave a brief salute, as if it alone had decided upon the gesture. Ross looked at Tsao, and wondered if he had noticed this first small gesture of welcome, or trust. If he had, it did not show in his dark eyes.
In the cabin, Tsao produced a bottle of sake, a gift, he explained, from a previous encounter with a Japanese patrol-vessel. Ross had never tasted it before, and thought it foul, but it helped to ease away the tension of waiting, sweating in the steel box above the boiler-room and straining their ears for every sound.
Tsao said, ‘You must keep out of sight from now on. There will be much shipping and many curious eyes.’ As he lit another cigarette, he ticked off the points in the same unemotional manner, as if it were an everyday occurrence.
‘We will go alongside and take on coal. It is a long task as the bunkers are almost empty of everything but dust. It will give us time to go ashore.’ He saw Villiers’ surprise, and added, ‘I have a permit to use a company car.’ He almost smiled; it seemed to amuse him. ‘The Nippon soldier is a great respecter of permits if signed by his own masters.’
‘And then?’ Ross hoped he sounded as detached as Tsao.
‘I have some papers for you to see, and some pictures for you to take with you when you leave us.’
Leave us. An old tug flying the Japanese flag, with patrol-boats and the risk of a stop-and-search exercise at any time of the day: it made the prospect of leaving, even surviving, seem like a fool’s dream.
That evening, as a deep gold sunset closed down the visibility, they washed in buckets of steaming water from the engine-room, with a coarse slab of soap which was as black as coal, and reminded Ross of the stuff his father had used to clean the grease and rust from his hands after working on some salvage job or other. What would Villiers’ girl say if she could see him now, standing naked while his superior officer washed his back for him? He thought of Victoria Mackenzie. What would she think?
They emptied the buckets over the side, and Villiers pointed. ‘Look. A junk.’
Caught in the last of the golden sunset and framed against the water like a huge bat, the strange-looking craft seemed as timeless as the place itself. Like Richard Tsao: no matter how long it took, or what terrible cost it demanded, he and his sort could wait, and triumph.
Later, after yet another meal of rice and fish and a second bottle of sake, Tsao raised the curtain a little more on what lay ahead.
‘The Germans have been here for a matter of months. But mostly they are in Penang, where they have better facilities. Co-operation between them and the Japanese is poor – the Japanese perhaps resent their intrusion more than they appreciate what they are doing. For their part, the Germans take exception at being treated as anything but the Master Race. They see their ally as inefficient, wasteful of resources and, for the most part, over-confident.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘They are not even allowed to wear their uniforms ashore, something they probably hate more than anything else.’
Villiers asked, ‘And what are they hoping to do there?’ Tsao stood. ‘I told you. I will show you.’ He gestured to some neatly-folded khaki clothing. ‘There are several sizes. Some should fit you.’
Villiers bent over the pile. ‘What are these?’
‘The same as the Germans wear when they are in town.’
Ross said, ‘If we wore these, and were caught wearing them . . .’
‘You would be treated as spies. Either way, you would die. But then, you knew that before you came to me, yes?’
Villiers said flatly, ‘Yes. We knew.’
Tsao said, ‘I must leave you now. You must try to rest. I do not think you will be disturbed again.’
When they were alone Villiers said, ‘What do you think they’re up to?’
‘The Master Race?’ It had sounded almost comical, coming from Tsao. ‘The Japs have conquered most of South-East Asia. And only now are they being held by the Americans in the Pacific. I would have thought the last thing the Japs need is advice or military training. It’s a different war, a different set of rules.’
Villiers said, half to himself, ‘I don’t think I could take being tortured.’ He did not look up. ‘Not a very brave thing to admit.’
Ross reached for the sake. Foul though it was, it seemed to help. He could almost hear Mike Tucker saying scornfully, You shouldn’t have joined . . . He thought, too, of Tsao’s summing up. You lead and others follow. It was suddenly important that Villiers did not lose the drive that had brought him this far. ‘Think of that girl of yours. Caryl, isn’t it?’ He watched Villiers look up, saw the effect of her name. ‘She’ll be waiting. She just wants to protect you, you know. Needs you to think of yourself, and not drop your guard around Sinclair, even for a moment.’ It was like hearing someone else. What the hell did he know about it? ‘When I was a boy, I thought only brave men won battles, that even if they were killed in action there was something glorious about it.’ He looked down at his hands, recalling the feel of her body when he had held her in Pryce’s office, and on that last night in the car, when she had kissed him. ‘We know the truth now. War is ugly and brutal, and for the most part death in battle is anything but glorious. Ask any old sweat!’
Villiers said, ‘Then why do we do it?’
‘Because it matters. To those who depend on us, who have to trust us, whether they like us or hate our guts. And for girls like Caryl . . .’
Villiers reached across the table, sharing it. ‘And Victoria.’
The next morning, after a quick meal, they changed into their borrowed clothing while Tsao collected all their personal belongings, identity cards and discs, anything that might betray them. Even their pistols were taken away and placed in a waterproof bag. Tsao allowed them to retain the suicide pills, without any comment. He knew that they understood the consequences of failure, not only for them but for all those found to be involved.
It was a strange, eerie feeling, watching the occasional masthead or stain of funnel-smoke appear briefly above the tug’s foredeck as they entered harbour. Maddening not to be able to see what was happening, although they were surrounded by shipping, some moored, others threading their way in or out of the anchorage as if nothing, not even the suffering or devastation of war, would ever change it. Ross was aware of his own excitement, strangely at odds with their circumstances: the sheer sense of anticipation at entering any foreign country, rather than apprehension at this covert penetration into the midst of a ruthless enemy.
The Success sounded her whistle and Ross heard another vessel reply.
If only
I could see it. When he glanced at Villiers he saw that his head was thrown back, as if he too were listening, forming a picture of everything he had once known and loved, which had gone for ever.
Tsao clattered down a ladder from the bridge. ‘We are permitted to go alongside the fuel jetty. My company clerk is waiting, but he will not come aboard.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘His presence means that we are safe to take up moorings. Tomorrow we shall head north again, for Penang. There I will show you . . .’ He broke off as somebody called from the wheelhouse. He ran lightly up the ladder, but was gone for only a minute. He was not even out of breath.
But he was changed. Different, in a way that Ross could not define. Excited? Unlikely, and yet . . .
Tsao took each of them by the arm. ‘You will not have to wait as long as I thought.’ His fingers were like steel. ‘Into the cabin. You will see from there.’
Ross almost fell in his eagerness to reach the cabin’s only scuttle. With Villiers pressed against him, he peered through the salt-smeared glass, not knowing what he expected to see.
He tried again to define the change in Tsao’s demeanour. Triumph. It was triumph, which even he could not conceal.
A great rusting barrier of steel almost blocked out the light as the tug pushed abeam of a moored freighter. The waterline was so thick with weed that it seemed likely she had not moved for many months. Then the sunshine came to greet them past the freighter’s overhanging bows and anchors, and he heard Villiers’ sharp intake of breath as he, too, saw the other vessel, stark and vivid in the glare.
Ross was a submariner, but it did not require his professional eye to identify the shark-like, raked bows with the jagged net-cutter above the stem. Abaft the conning tower, the scarlet flag with its black cross and swastika hung motionless in the warm air. As if it had been waiting, just for them.
Victoria paused by a window, one of the few in the small headquarters building from which you could see the ocean, and watched the motionless trees and the haze of heat and dust which gave the only pretence of movement. It was unusually hot; even she, who was used to it, found it oppressive, like an open furnace. Ninety degrees. It was Saturday, and the place was deserted but for the small operational staff and the duty officers. The rest had probably gone swimming, or hitched into town in the search for pleasure. She plucked the shirt away from her body. A swim. Later perhaps . . . But she knew she would not. It was like being adrift, unable to concentrate.
She watched the hard blue line of the horizon, remembering the night he had sailed in the submarine with the lieutenant who had once lived in Singapore. It was as if they had vanished, as if they had never been. But she never forgot, and as the weeks had dragged by each memory had become clearer, more vivid: they were all that she might ever have. Except for the precious medal he had left in her care. She had looked at it every night before she had turned in, held it against her bare breast as if to bring him back, to hold on to the only link she had.
She turned away from the window and heard hammering somewhere. The fans had broken down again; no wonder it was so hot, so crushing. The rating by the door looked up from his magazine, then covered it with his elbow. But not before she had seen the heavy-breasted nude on the cover.
‘The Captain’s expecting you.’ He grinned. ‘He’s got company.’
She knocked and pushed open the door, knowing that the seaman was looking at her legs. She felt no anger or resentment. He had probably been out here so long that he had forgotten anyone he might once have cared for.
Captain Pryce stood, arms folded, by his desk. Commander John Crookshank from Operations Intelligence sat comfortably in one of the deep chairs. She glanced at the desk. No signal-pad, no envelope marked Top Secret. Her heart sank. Nothing, then.
Pryce said, ‘Glad you were aboard. Thought you should meet your new boss, so to speak.’ He sounded vaguely uneasy, which was unusual for him. She realized for the first time that a Wren officer was sitting near Crookshank, clean and crisp in her white uniform, her eyes hidden in the slatted shadow thrown by the sun through the lowered blinds. Pryce said, ‘Second Officer Blandford. Celia Blandford.’
Victoria waited; it was hard to see her in the shadows. Slim, fresh skin and dark brown hair. At least she wasn’t fair, as Jane Clarke had been. Victoria brushed her own hair from her forehead without even realizing she had moved. She had always envied Jane’s hair and her English complexion. But she no longer missed her. It was like losing a friend: people came and went; it happened often enough these days. Nevertheless, she felt a strange resentment that a stranger was to take her place, to use the chair in the operations room that had remained empty since that terrible night.
Second Officer Blandford said, ‘We’ll get to know each other pretty well, I expect.’ She smiled briefly. ‘I understand that you turned down the opportunity of a commission?’
Victoria answered, ‘It was my choice.’
Pryce said, ‘I think you were wrong, but I said as much at the time. You have to put the service first. It can’t always suit your personal needs, you know.’
As usual, Crookshank remained firmly on the fence. ‘Well, of course, my dear, there are two sides to everything, right?’
‘Anyway,’ Blandford continued as if there had been no interruption. ‘There won’t be too many changes, not as far as I’m concerned. Smartness, punctuality, efficiency – what I’ve been used to.’
Victoria noticed how her lips formed into a smile during each sentence which vanished before the end of it. A nervous habit, or a calculated one to cover her true feelings? Celia Blandford was probably about her own age, a year older at the most, and yet there was something stiff and formal about her that reminded Victoria of a teacher she had known at the exclusive finishing-school in England, which her father had considered ‘only right and proper’ for his daughter. Love, defiance, pride, it was a part of them all. How could she leave him? How could she have gone without waiting to see Jamie again?
Crookshank said heavily, ‘Some good news you should know about. Sub-Lieutenant Napier and P.O. Tucker are back.’
The Wren officer said in a sharp little voice, ‘I was going to tell her when it had been cleared.’
Victoria said, ‘I’m so glad. What about . . . ?’
Pryce interjected, ‘Telegraphist Rice didn’t make it. They did a fine job before they were captured by the Japs. The Chindits got them out – bloody marvellous, when you think of it. I shall see Napier, and Tucker of course, when they’re cleared by the P.M.O. I’ve already put Napier down for advanced promotion and some suitable decoration.’
Crookshank went on gravely, ‘No news of Commander Ross, though. But early days. We should hear something quite soon.’ That was as far as he intended to commit himself.
She heard herself say, ‘P.O. Tucker doesn’t know about Commander Ross, sir.’
Second Officer Blandford eyed her curiously. ‘Should he?’
‘They are very close.’ She felt sick, and angry with herself because of it. She saw the impatience and added, ‘Ma’am.’
Crookshank said, ‘Are you feeling unwell, my dear?’ He looked at Pryce. ‘A chair, I think.’
She replied, ‘The heat. I’m all right, sir.’
Blandford said, ‘It is pretty close, I must say. Bit of a change from England.’ The smile came and went just as quickly. ‘I’d have thought you would have been used to it, er, Mackenzie?’
She might have meant it either way. Victoria no longer cared. ‘I manage.’
Pryce looked at them with a mixture of disappointment and satisfaction. It was not going to work. It had been a mistake to send the new second officer without first consulting him. This was not the Royal Naval Barracks, or some operations section in a bomb-proof shelter deep under ground, where the war was fought with little flags and crosses on wall-charts.
The new officer turned to look up at him. ‘What happened to this man Rice, sir?’
Crookshank spread his plump hands. ‘I
t’s all in the report. We were fortunate not to lose the whole crew. We still don’t know what happened to Turquoise, although there have been plenty of ideas bandied about.’
Pryce said curtly, ‘Rice was killed by the Japs. Beheaded.’
Victoria saw her new officer’s hands clench into fists, the sudden tension. Pryce had caused it deliberately, for her sake, thinking she herself could not be shocked, not after Jane Clarke. He was wrong about that, too.
She asked, ‘May I go and see Mike Tucker, sir?’
‘I don’t see why not. The P.M.O. will probably release him soon.’
Crookshank leaned forward in his chair. ‘Commander Ross’s mission is not for discussion. Please remember that.’
Pryce glanced at him briefly, and with dislike. If he had said Don’t be such a bloody fool; everyone knows anyway out loud, he could not have made it plainer.
‘I know that, sir.’ I love him, don’t you understand? It was almost as if she had shouted at them. ‘They’ll be feeling it. You know how they are after an operation.’ The words seemed to mock her. She had had plenty of time to observe their strange behaviour after Jamie had gone away. At Christmas, the place had been a madhouse of wild, drunken celebration, and the juvenile high spirits had been at their worst in the wardroom. The young subbies and lieutenants had gone through their usual destructive form of field-gun drill, using sofas as guns and the wardroom table as the barrier they were expected to surmount. The damage, like the mess bills, had been horrendous.
Then, only the following day or so it had seemed, the news of the sinking of the German battle-cruiser Scharnhorst had been announced. She had fallen to the guns of Admiral Fraser’s Duke of York in the freezing seas off North Cape. The last of Germany’s major warships, a ship with a charmed life, which had outlived and outfought all the others.
But a matter of rejoicing? She had watched with astonishment as those same young officers had raised their glasses in salute, not to a vanquished enemy, but to a brave ship and her equally gallant company. She would never understand them.
A Dawn Like Thunder Page 21