Torrance- Escape From Singapore

by Onbekend

  ‘Solly’s right, Cyril. You stay here. Slugger and Lefty will see to it you get a lift back to the Anzac Club.’

  ‘What about the rest of you Argylls?’ asked Piggott. ‘Any of you want to show the brass some of us still have some fight left in them?’

  Rossi started to rise. Torrance grabbed him by the arm and tried to pull him back down into his seat. ‘Don’t be daft, Lefty! You heard him, it’s some kind of suicide mission!’

  ‘What if it is? I didnae join the army just so I could shirk danger!’ Rossi pulled his arm from Torrance’s grip and waved it over his head. ‘I’ll come, sir.’

  ‘Good man, Rossini!’

  ‘That’s Rossi, sir.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  MacRae rose to his feet. He might be a psycho, but no one could accuse him of cowardice. Or indeed being the kind of man who would turn down an opportunity to slit people up, especially foreign people.

  ‘Good show, MacRae,’ said Piggott.

  Torrance grinned. That’s right, he thought. You sod off on Piggy Piggott’s suicide mission. And while you’re out of the barracks, I’ll be going through your locker to get my tickets back…

  And what if they were not in MacRae’s locker? What if he had them on him… and he ended up lying in a monsoon ditch with his body riddled with Jap bullets? Torrance would never see those tickets again…

  Six

  Wednesday 1000 – 1830

  Swearing under his breath, Torrance pushed himself to his feet.

  ‘Yes, what is it, Corporal?’ asked Piggott.

  ‘I’d like to come, sir.’

  The lieutenant looked taken aback. ‘You, Torrance?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You did hear what I said, didn’t you? It’s exceedingly hazardous, and highly unlikely that any man who takes part in this mission will live to tell the tale.’

  ‘I ain’t afraid to hazard my life in the defence of the empire, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’ Piggott puffed out his cheeks. ‘Gibson, MacRae, Rossi, our two wild colonial boys and, er, Torrance, report immediately to the briefing room. The rest of you, as you were.’

  ‘Do us a favour, Blanco,’ Torrance told White, and indicated Boyd. ‘Make sure he gets a lift to the Anzac Club.’

  ‘Leave it to me, Corp’.’

  Torrance drained what was left in his bottle of Tiger beer – which was most of it – in a single draught before hurrying after the others as they followed Piggott across to the hut which served as the battalion briefing room, camp cinema on Tuesdays and Thursdays and chapel on Sunday mornings. Rows of mismatched wooden chairs were set out, facing a dais with a large-scale map of Singapore tacked to the wall behind.

  A gentleman in his mid-forties stood on the dais, leaning on a malacca cane with one hand while fanning his face with a panama hat in the other. A private of the Malay Regiment stood to one side, a slight figure in khaki drills with a black velvet songkok on his head. Sergeant Cochrane stood in the middle of the chairs, fiddling with a projector standing on a stack of telephone directories on a stool.

  Torrance lounged in a seat in the back row out of force of habit, until he noticed the other seven had all sat in the front row. He was about to shout ‘arse-lickers’ down the hut when he remembered he had not yet made sure of a ticket to India: he still had to give the appearance of an eager and professional soldier.

  ‘Are these the fellows?’ asked the civilian gentleman. ‘I say, what a splendid lot of ruffians! As the Duke of Wellington put it, I don’t know what effect these men will have on the enemy but, by God, they frighten me.’

  Cochrane performed a double take when he saw Torrance joining the others in the front row. ‘Torrance! What are ye doin’ here?’

  ‘Volunteering to do my bit for the British Empire, Sar’nt.’

  ‘Did ye get hit onna head or sumptin’ up at Bukit Timah? This had better no’ be another one of your scams.’

  ‘Dunno what you mean, Sar’nt.’

  ‘If we might get on?’ murmured the man in the white cotton suit. ‘Time is pressing.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Piggott. ‘Now pay attention, chaps – all of you. This is Colonel Hamilton of the Centre for Operational Intelligence and Signals. He’ll be giving this briefing.’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. Well, as you all know, on Sunday evening the Japs landed here between Sungei Berih and Sarimbun.’ Using his cane as a pointer, Hamilton indicated a stretch of the western coast on the wall map.

  ‘You don’t need to tell us, mate,’ said Quinn. ‘We were there. Ain’t that right, Solly?’

  ‘Yeah, too bloody right,’ said Shapiro.

  ‘And yet you’re still ready to go back into the thick of it,’ said Hamilton. ‘Good show! Now, where was I? Oh yes… the landing at Sarimbun… then Kranji and Woodlands the night before last. They now hold both ends of the Causeway and appear to be using it to bring their armour onto the island. In short, they’ve now overrun the entire western third of the island: roughly everything west of the railway line. Now here – right in the middle of what I’ll call the Japanese zone – is Istana Mimpi, the home of a gentleman rejoicing in the name of Iskandar al-Qayyim ibni al-Marhum Sulaiman al-Jawziyya, the self-styled Sultan of Malacca. Could we have the first slide, Sar’nt? Oh, and, er, Private Zulkifli, perhaps you could switch off the lights?’

  The projector’s fan whirred into life, projecting an image onto the white screen against which films were projected on Sunday nights. The Malay soldier flicked the light switch. It was still daylight outside and, although the jalousies were closed, enough light filtered through to prevent the room from being plunged into pitch darkness. Nevertheless, the image on the screen became infinitely clearer: a large, two-storey mansion with a steeply pitched roof of pantiles and wide balconies with art deco railings around most of the upper storey. There were adjustable awnings over most of the windows, and on both floors much of the outside walls consisted of wooden panels that could be removed altogether, in the Malay style, to allow the residents to arrange for a good flow-through of air no matter which direction the wind was blowing from. If Torrance was disappointed – hearing the words ‘home’ and ‘sultan’ had immediately conjured up an image that might have been a matte shot from The Thief of Baghdad, with onion domes, Moorish horseshoe arches and maybe June Duprez lounging in the garden in gauzy harem pants – he still had to admit it would not have looked out of place amongst the homes of the Hollywood stars you sometimes saw in the newsreels.

  ‘And if we could have the second slide, Sar’nt?’ asked Hamilton.

  Cochrane pushed the slider across and an image of a middle-aged Malay wearing a high-collared, lapel-less coat and a black velvet songkok was projected on the screen.

  ‘That, gentlemen, is Mr al-Jawziyya,’ said Hamilton. ‘Your job is to go to Istana Mimpi and bring him safely back to Singapore Town.’

  After they had had a few more seconds to study the sultan’s face, Hamilton ordered Zulkifli to turn the lights back on. Rossi immediately raised a hand. ‘Question?’ Hamilton asked him.

  ‘Are ye asking us to risk our lives to save some Malayan royal?’

  ‘Have ye got something against royals?’ asked Gibson.

  ‘A republican like Lefty?’ asked Torrance. ‘I’m surprised you even need to ask.’

  ‘The whole concept of royalty is an affront to the basic dignity of every working man that’s ever had to earn his living by the sweat o’ his brow—’ said Rossi.

  ‘Would it make you feel any better if I told you our government does not recognise Mr al-Jawziyya as Sultan of Malacca, even if certain sections of Singapore’s gutter press do?’ asked Hamilton.

  ‘If we don’t recognise him as Sultan of Malacca, what’s so important about him?’

  ‘We think the Japanese intend to recognise his claim and, on that basis, plan to install him as a puppet to legitimise their rule over Malaya. That’s why I sent my agent to Istana Mimpi on Sunday to try to persuade
him to evacuate. Unfortunately, events overtook us and before anyone knew it, the whole estate had been cut off by the Japanese invasion.’

  ‘How are we supposed to get past all the Japs between here and Istana Mimpi, sir?’ asked MacRae.

  ‘I was just coming to that. At present the front line runs from the Reformatory Road junction on Bukit Timah Road, below Bukit Timah Hill and across to the western end of the MacRitchie Reservoir. Under cover of darkness, you’ll cross the reservoir by collapsible boat at twenty-hundred hours tonight, join the pipeline due east of Bukit Panjang – well behind the Japanese lines – and follow it north two miles as far as the Mandai Road, head east, cross the Woodlands Road here, make your way across the plantations in this part of the island, cross the Kranji Creek here, and from there make your way to Istana Mimpi.’

  ‘How are we supposed to get across the Kranji Creek?’ asked Quinn. ‘Will there be boats, or will we have to swim it? Not that me and Solly couldn’t manage it, but I’m just wondering if the sultan will be able to on the way back.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that, Bluey,’ said Shapiro. ‘I’ll carry him on my back if we have to.’

  ‘No need for anyone to swim,’ said Piggott. ‘The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders proved the creek can be forded on manoeuvres last summer. Sergeant Cochrane and his men will show us the way, and once we’re on the west bank, Private Zulkifli here will act as our guide.’ The lieutenant gestured at the private from the Malay Regiment. ‘He was born at Tanjong Buloh and grew up there, so he knows that part of Singapore probably as well as anyone.’

  The Malay, who had been standing at ease, snapped to attention at the mention of his name, parade-ground smart, a native soldier determined not to disgrace his unit and show that native troops were worthy to serve alongside the men from the homeland of his imperial masters. The Argylls and Australians scarcely glanced at him.

  ‘Having made contact with my agent, you’ll contact me by wireless,’ Hamilton continued. ‘I can then advise whether your best option is to sit tight and wait for our advance to catch up with you, or to return by the same route, bringing Mr al-Jawziyya with you. Twelve miles there, twelve miles back. We have a berth booked for Mr al-Jawziyya on board the Queen of the Orient. Even allowing for delays, I believe that’s ample time for you to get him to Keppel Harbour before she sails at twenty-one hundred hours on Friday. Any questions?’

  ‘What if it’s all over by then?’ asked Rossi.

  ‘I should say that’s highly unlikely,’ said Piggott. ‘We’re still holding the Japanese forces at Bukit Timah as far as I’m aware. It’s entirely possible that by the time you get to Istana Mimpi, we’ll have pushed the Japs back into the sea and be there ahead of you.’

  Some hopes, thought Torrance.

  ‘Do we get a rumpty name?’ asked Shapiro. ‘You know, like “the Bonzer Band” or “the Snodger Squad”?’

  Hamilton blinked at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘What he means is, what’s the code name for our unit gonna be?’ translated Quinn.

  ‘Oh, well, when a unit is formed from heterogeneous elements on an ad hoc basis—’

  ‘What’s he say?’ asked Shapiro.

  ‘What he means is, we’re a ragtag push of odds and sods,’ translated Quinn.

  ‘—the usual form is to take the first three letters of the name of the commanding officer as the designation, and then tack “force” on after that. Thus Colonel Dalley’s volunteer Chinese are known as Dalforce, Colonel Thomas’s scratch brigade is known as Tomforce, and so on.’

  ‘So who’s our CO gonna be?’ asked Quinn.

  ‘Lieutenant Piggott here will be in command.’

  ‘Pigforce! Bloody hell!’ Shapiro turned to the lieutenant. ‘You couldn’t’ve been named “Maxwell” or “Foxall” or something like that, could you?’

  ‘Coulda been worse, mate,’ said Quinn. ‘What if his name had been Poole?’

  ‘Blimey, yeah,’ agreed Shapiro. ‘Imagine trying to explain that one to your grandchildren!’

  ‘Anyone else have any questions?’ asked Hamilton.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got a question,’ said Torrance. ‘If this bloke is so important to the Japs, how do we know they haven’t already nipped down to Istana Mimpi and nabbed him?’

  ‘So far the Japs have neglected to cut the telephone line to that part of the island,’ explained Hamilton. ‘So I’m still in touch with my agent at Istana Mimpi. Obviously we can’t rule out the possibility the Japs have tapped the line and are listening in on our communications, so we must be circumspect, but I spoke with my agent not half an hour ago and, at that time, no Japanese had been spotted within a mile of Istana Mimpi.’

  Torrance wondered what sort of man Hamilton’s agent was. A cloak-and-dagger merchant, obviously: one of those smarmy Old Etonian lounge lizards the Foreign Office liked to recruit.

  ‘Half an hour ago is one thing, sir,’ said Rossi. ‘If we set off at twenty-hundred hours tonight, we’ll be lucky to reach Istana Mimpi much before dawn. What’s to say the Japs won’t have captured Mr Jawziyya by then?’

  ‘It’s entirely possible,’ agreed Hamilton. ‘But at this point in the campaign, Mr al-Jawziyya will be low on their list of priorities. The Japanese are doubtless more concerned at this stage with securing a British surrender. There’s nothing of strategic value within three miles of Istana Mimpi. As long as you steer clear of Ama Keng, once through the Japanese lines I believe you should have a clear run to your objective.’

  ‘What’s at Ama Keng?’ asked Rossi.

  ‘A couple of platoons of Japanese soldiers. At least, they were spotted there on Monday morning. I think we should work on the assumption they’ll still be there tomorrow.’

  ‘For all any of us know, the Japanese have already captured Mr Jawziyya,’ said Torrance. ‘You say you’ve got an agent at Istana Mimpi. What if the Japs are holding a gun to his head, getting him to tell you what they want so’s to lure a rescue attempt into their ambush?’

  ‘It’s entirely possible,’ admitted Hamilton. ‘But I think not. For one thing, my agent is highly resourceful and would have used some code to alert me to the fact if that was the case. Secondly, the Japs would only go to such lengths if they thought it was likely we would commit men to an attempt like this. This operation’s best chance of success rests on the fact it’s the last thing the Japs would expect us to do.’

  ‘What you mean is, you’re counting on the fact the Japs won’t expect us to be so stupid as to try sneaking behind enemy lines to try to rescue this Jawziyya bloke.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite in those terms. But otherwise, yes, I’d say you have the nub of it.’

  ‘You volunteered for this mission, Torrance,’ said Piggott. ‘No one promised you any medals. If you’ve not got the stomach for it, the door’s over there.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, sir. I’ll make sure we get Mr Jawziyya on board the Queen of the Orient when she sails on Friday.’ And me on board the Hsiu T’ung an hour later, with any luck.

  * * *

  ‘Hullo, Hullo?’ Torrance jiggled the cradle of the telephone on Colonel Stewart’s desk.

  ‘Identify yourself.’

  ‘This is Colonel Hamilton here,’ Torrance said in his best Sandhurst drawl. It did not sound much like Hamilton, but he was counting on the army operator not being familiar with the colonel’s voice. Most of them were Eurasian girls, fluent enough in English certainly, but no more capable of telling a Sandhurst drawl from a Belfast brogue than Torrance could tell a Bombay burr from a Pathan patois. ‘I say, could you connect me to a civilian line?’

  ‘Putting you through now, Colonel.’

  ‘Good show.’

  There came a couple of electronic clicks, the line went quiet – for a moment Torrance thought he had been cut off and was back to square one – but then the post office operator’s voice came on the line. ‘What number, please?’

  ‘Don’t know the number. Could you put me t
hrough to the Alexandra Barracks Hospital?’

  ‘Hold the line.’

  Torrance took a pack of Gold Flake from the breast pocket of his shirt, plugged one in the corner of his mouth and lit it with a match.

  ‘Putting you through now, sir,’ said the operator.

  ‘Alexandra Barracks Hospital,’ announced a woman’s voice, slightly accented, probably another Eurasian.

  ‘Could you put me through to Dr Sheridan, please?’ asked Torrance.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, there’s no Dr Sheridan on the staff here.’

  ‘She’s not a doctor, she’s… well, yes, she is a doctor; what I mean is, she’s also a patient. Yank, redhead, a real eyeful?’

  ‘I’m sorry, we can’t take calls for patients through the switchboard.’

  ‘Can’t you make an exception? This is an emergency.’

  ‘This is a hospital. Everything we deal with is an emergency.’

  ‘Can you at least give her a message?’

  ‘This isn’t a messaging service.’

  ‘Please. Look, I’m about to go out and fight the Japs, I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again, this is the last chance I’ve got to get any kind of message to her.’

  The woman sighed. ‘What’s the message?’

  ‘Tell her Charlie says to get off this island. Liner, freighter, junk, sampan, inflatable toy if she has to.’

  ‘“… Junk… sampan… inflatable… toy… if… she… has to.” Anything else?’

  ‘No, that’s it.’

  ‘You don’t want to tell her you love her?’

  ‘What? Oh. Yeah. Tell her that.’

  ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

  Before Torrance could reply, Colonel Stewart entered, holding the door open for Major Rose, Captain Wilson and Sergeant Major Bing. Torrance hastily gave the cradle a couple of taps, concealing his cigarette in a cupped left hand.

  ‘Identify yourself,’ said the military operator.

  ‘Corporal Torrance carrying out a line check.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Out of your hair in a moment, sir,’ he told the colonel, before removing his hand again. ‘Can you hear me all right?’