Torrance- Escape From Singapore

by Onbekend

  Moving further into the room, Torrance glimpsed a shadowy figure through the banisters beyond the foot of the other wing of the stairs. He levelled the Thompson even as the other figure aimed his rifle, and both he and Rossi came within a hair’s breadth of gunning each other down before they recognised one another: so there were two parallel passageways leading from the hallway into this room, and Rossi had been exploring the other. Both of them quickly lowered their guns, and Rossi puffed out his cheeks with an expression of relief. MacRae emerged from the passage behind him, while Quinn followed Torrance out of the first passage.

  Taking turns to cover one another, Rossi and MacRae moved to check the doorways leading off the far end of the room at the foot of the stairs, while Torrance swung the Thompson’s muzzle around the corner to his left and found more rattan furniture – easy chairs arrayed around a coffee table with magazines on it – but no danger. He could hear shooting outside, however: the Bren, set to single-shot, which suggested Shapiro was taking his time, firing at individuals he could see, rather than blazing away randomly at the house with the gun set to automatic.

  Something thudded down the stairs. Torrance turned the Thompson’s muzzle towards the sound, expecting to see another Japanese soldier descending the flying staircase, but it was only a cylindrical object thudding on step after step.

  ‘Grenade!’ he shouted at Quinn. He glimpsed the Australian darting behind a stout pillar even as Torrance ducked around the corner, hunkering down with his backside on the floor and his arms pressed against his head to protect his ears from the percussion. Even from around the corner he saw the flash of light through eyelids squeezed shut, and heard the crack of the detonation. He waited no more than a second before pushing himself to his feet and swinging around the corner once more. The air was hazy with dust and smoke and the acrid reek of explosive clawed at his throat. Quinn staggered out from behind his pillar, taking one hand from his own Thompson long enough to give Torrance the thumbs up to let him know he was uninjured.

  That was all the time they had before more thuds sounded on the flying staircase, real footfalls this time, but Torrance and Quinn were ready for it, both of them firing long bursts from their sub-machine guns, Torrance’s bullets ricocheting off the art deco banisters as he cut down the Japanese soldiers from the side while Quinn fired through the underside of the flying staircase, his bullets ripping up through the steps. The three soldiers coming down were caught in a crossfire, pitching up against the wall at the back of the half landing. They collapsed in a heap, leaving bloody streaks splashed across the wall. One still moved slightly, so Torrance put another burst into all to make sure of them.

  Quinn ran part of the way up the stairs, crouching over the three dead men, his Thompson pointed at the landing above, ready to give Torrance covering fire. Torrance ran past him, picking his way over the corpses, ascending the flying staircase. He stopped short of the landing, dropping to his knees. He was aware of an open area before him with bookshelves, more rattan furniture, and a couple of sections of panelling removed from the far wall to reveal the balcony beyond. To his left and right, a corridor ran the full length of this wing of the building, with doors on both sides. As he peered gingerly around the banister to gaze down this corridor, he saw a Japanese soldier aiming a rifle at him from one of the doorways. Torrance withdrew his head a split second before the rifle boomed, and heard the bullet ricochet off the banister with a whine. Hearing a noise below, he glanced down to see Quinn a few steps below him on the flying staircase.

  Torrance took a Number 27 grenade from a pocket and pulled the pin, lobbing it gently. In a matter of seconds, billows of thick, white, choking smoke had filled the corridor, blocking his view of the shooter and, more importantly, the shooter’s view of anyone coming up the stairs. Torrance dashed across the corridor into the space at the other side.

  Realising what the British intended, the shooter was firing blindly now: the bullets burst through the billows, drawing out little spirals of smoke in their wake. But they were few and far between and Quinn, staying low, evaded them easily to join Torrance in the open area beyond the landing.

  Torrance peered cautiously out onto the balcony, which overlooked the lawn at the front of the house. A corpse sprawled where a man had taken cover in a flower bed – a victim of Shapiro’s Bren – and a couple of Japanese soldiers fled towards the main gate. Torrance aimed his Thompson at them. He had no qualms about shooting men in the back – an enemy spared today might well kill him tomorrow – but this time he decided to save his ammo for the Japanese still in the house.

  The balcony went around a corner before it came to an end, though after a four-foot gap there was another balcony further along. Smoke curled from the louvres set in the last panel on Torrance’s left. When he came to the end of the balcony, he slung his Thompson across his back and climbed up to stand on the railing. It was too far to step and there was no chance of taking a run-up. Torrance played it safe, hunkering down and launching himself forward, catching the railing of the next balcony with both hands even as his body dropped. His chest swung painfully against the balcony, but a few bruises would not kill him. He hauled himself up, boots scrabbling against the wrought iron, and scrambled over the railing to stand on the balcony. Quinn followed him, the long-legged Australian trying to show off by making a standing jump from one railing to the next. He made it, too, but then started to teeter, arms flailing, and Torrance had to grab him by the belt to stop him from falling.

  No sooner had Quinn jumped down to join Torrance on the balcony than a bullet smashed through the panelling to their left. The two of them threw themselves flat on the balcony as more bullets punched through. Between shots, Torrance could hear whoever was on the other side working the bolt action of a rifle. Unslinging his Thompson, he fired a long, spraying burst towards the sound. No more bullets came. After taking a deep breath, he picked himself up and threw himself at the panel. It splintered under his weight and he fell through, rolling across the tiled floor of a luxurious bathroom. Two legs stuck up out of the celadon-hued bathtub with crepe-soled boots on the feet and puttees wound around the ankles. Keeping the Thompson at the ready, Torrance peered cautiously over the edge of the tub to satisfy himself the Japanese was dead.

  Another Japanese appeared in the doorway. Before Torrance could aim his Thompson, Quinn had fired a burst from the balcony. The bullets ripped into the Japanese’s chest, sending him staggering back against another wooden panel. It collapsed under his weight and he sprawled on the balcony beyond, except it was too wide to be a balcony; Torrance guessed it was the terrace above the portico over the entrance at the end of the building. He could no longer hear Shapiro’s Bren, but rifle shots – both Arisakas and Lee–Enfields, the latter proving Rossi and MacRae were still in the fight – came from downstairs, along with the occasional explosion of a Mills bomb.

  Smoke from the Number 27 billowed into the bathroom, tickling Torrance’s throat and making his eyes water. Quinn started coughing. ‘You seen any sultans yet?’

  Torrance shook his head. ‘You?’

  ‘Nope.’ The Australian cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Any sultans in here?’ he shouted.

  Before Torrance could ask him what he thought he was doing and why he wanted to give their position away to the Japanese, he heard an answering voice from a room nearby. ‘In here, gentlemen!’

  Torrance and Quinn exchanged glances. Thompsons at the ready, they moved out into the corridor. They wafted their hands in front of their faces in a vain attempt to clear the air, and had to grope their way along the walls in search of doors. ‘Where are you?’ shouted Quinn.

  ‘In here.’ The voice was not the same one Torrance had heard a few moments earlier, but it spoke English and might be able to provide some answers. Torrance found a door and stumbled through, pulling Quinn through after him before slamming the door behind them to keep the smoke out.

  Three people stood beyond the wide four-poster bed hung with mo
squito netting that dominated the centre of the room. Torrance would have been less than human not to notice the woman first, a platinum blonde wearing a plain cotton blouse and a pair of khaki jodhpurs. Her hair hung down in a cascade over one side of her face, hiding one eye, like Veronica Lake.

  Under other circumstances, Torrance could cheerfully have spent the rest of the day grinning at her, but staying alive was a higher priority, and that required giving the two men in the room at least a cursory glance. One of them he recognised at once as the sultan from the slide Hamilton had shown him, though he was a little older than he appeared in the photograph, the hair now silver rather than grey, wearing a coral-pink polo shirt and white jodhpurs. And behind them both stood a tall Japanese wearing a brown leather jacket and dark glasses, like a blind man, though judging from the accuracy with which this one aimed a Taisho magazine pistol at the back of the sultan’s head, he was far from blind. A panel had been removed from the wall behind the three of them, revealing another balcony and flooding the room with sunlight.

  ‘Drop your guns,’ the Japanese ordered in excellent English, ‘or I will kill the sultan.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Torrance.

  The Japanese looked from Torrance to Quinn and back again. When it became clear neither of them had any intention of giving up their Thompsons, he shifted his weight from one leg to the other and furrowed his brow. ‘What do you mean, “okay”?’

  ‘Go ahead and shoot him.’ Torrance shrugged. ‘Look, chum, my superiors don’t give a toss whether he lives or dies. They just don’t want your lot making him a puppet ruler. So the way I see it, whether I take him back to our lines or he dies here and now, as far as I’m concerned, either way that’s mission accomplished. So go ahead and pull the trigger: you’ll be sparing me the bother of carting him back through our lines.’

  A grin spread slowly across the Japanese’s face. ‘You’re bluffing. If you truly felt that way, you’d have killed us both by now.’

  ‘You might want to think twice before you assume this bloke’s bluffing.’ Quinn jerked his head at Torrance. ‘Just between the five of us I don’t think he’s the full quid. Definitely gone troppo, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Then perhaps I should threaten the woman.’ The Japanese switched his aim from the sultan to the blonde. ‘Perhaps like so many of your countrymen, you are squeamish about violence against women?’

  Torrance and Quinn exchanged glances. The Cockney knew if they surrendered their guns, the Japanese would probably just kill them all, but nevertheless he shared the Australian’s evident squeamishness about standing by and allowing the Japanese to kill the woman. Being ninety percent sure he was bluffing was not much help.

  Sensing their hesitation, the Japanese smiled. ‘Fools! You don’t even understand what it is you are fighting for. Your corrupt liberal system of the survival of the fittest guarantees freedom for the few at the cost of ignoring the plight of the weak and inarticulate. Why do you not accept the Emperor as the arahitogami, the divine being manifest as man descended from the unbroken line of emperors from the Age of the Gods?’

  ‘What, and become a mindless slave like you, you mean?’ sneered Torrance.

  The Japanese laughed. ‘You speak as a child. There is no contradiction in obeying the will of the emperor voluntarily, based on one’s own sincere desires and conscience. He does not do what he wants, he does what he must, led by the eternal nation as sensed by the people. From him comes the unity of “one spirit, same body,” which joins superior and inferior as one universal life. You have only to surrender your ego and merge your self totally into the mystical body of the emperor.’

  While the Japanese was speaking, a young woman in the tropical whites of the Women’s Royal Naval Service stepped into view on the balcony behind him. Torrance could not guess what she intended – she was unarmed, as far as he could see – but all he could think to do was to distract the Japanese by keeping him talking. ‘Cobblers!’ he said.

  The Japanese furrowed his brow. ‘Cobblers…?’

  ‘Cobblers’ awls, mate. Balls!’

  The Wren had moved to stand behind the Japanese and now she pressed something in her fist to the back of his head. ‘Throw the pistol on the bed.’

  The Japanese made to do as he was ordered but then, as swift as lightning, spun around, knocking her hand aside. As he turned, Torrance saw the woman had nothing more dangerous in her hand than the cap of a pen. The Japanese swung his pistol towards her. Torrance aimed his Thompson at the Japanese, but dared not fire for fear of hitting the Wren. But she was no longer where the Taisho was pointed. Moving just as swiftly as the Japanese, she had side-stepped, catching him by the wrist. The two of them grappled for a moment, then the woman twisted away, leaning to one side to roll the Japanese over her hip. The Japanese flipped through the air in a flurry of flailing arms and legs and crashed down, landing heavily on his back with nothing more than a Bokhara rug to cushion his fall. And somehow, while all that had been going on, the Taisho had somehow found its way from the Japanese’s hand to the Wren’s, and now she turned it on the Japanese.

  ‘You know ju-jutsu,’ gasped the Japanese.

  ‘And karate-do,’ said the Wren. ‘Happy to give you a demonstration, if there’s any fight left in you.’

  Judging from the way the Japanese remained sprawled on his back with his eyes closed, he was in no hurry to put her claims to the test.

  The sultan evidently recognised the Wren, for an expression of profound relief passed over his face when he saw her. ‘My dear Kitty!’ His voice was deep and sonorous. ‘Allah be praised you still live!’

  ‘When I saw a platoon of Japanese soldiers marching up the drive, I thought it would be best to lie low until a suitable opportunity to reverse the situation presented itself,’ she explained.

  Torrance hurriedly moved around the bed. The navy bint had got lucky, but now a man needed to take charge of this extremely dangerous situation. ‘It’s all right, miss,’ he said, pressing the muzzle of his Thompson to the Japanese’s head. ‘You’re safe now.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said the Wren. ‘Don’t you salute a superior officer?’

  ‘Salute?’ Torrance was not sure which was crazier: the suggestion that he salute a woman, the suggestion that he salute a naval officer, or the suggestion he salute anyone when he had his Thompson aimed at a prisoner. ‘It may have escaped your attention, love, but I’ve got my hands full here.’

  ‘And you call me “ma’am”, not “love”. Did Colonel Hamilton send you?’

  ‘Yes, he—’

  ‘Took your time getting here, didn’t you?’

  ‘Took our time getting here! We just fought our way through half the ruddy Japanese Army! What the bloody hell do you know about Colonel Hamilton?’

  ‘He’s the officer who sent me here. Surely he mentioned me?’

  ‘You’re Hamilton’s agent?’ Torrance spluttered in disbelief.

  She grinned. ‘Killigrew’s the name. Third Officer Kitty Killigrew.’

  ‘I’m Corporal Torrance. This is Bluey Quinn.’

  ‘G’day,’ said Quinn, tying the Japanese’s wrists behind his back with a length of log line from his kit.

  ‘Not related to Brigadier Torrance, by any chance?’ asked Kitty.

  Torrance glared at her. ‘No, I’m one of the Plaistow Torrances,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘You’ve met the sultan, of course?’

  ‘We’ve not been formally introduced.’

  ‘In that case: Your Majesty, may I present Corporal Torrance and Private Bluey Quinn? Gentlemen, this is His Majesty Iskandar al-Qayyim ibni al-Marhum Sulaiman al-Jawziyya, Sultan of Malacca.’

  ‘Salaam aleikum.’ The sultan touched his forehead, lips and heart in turn, before bowing to them both.

  Quinn made a namaste. ‘Aleikum salaam.’

  Torrance gave him a funny look.

  The Australian grinned. ‘Oh, I suppose you think until I joined the army, I spent my whole life h
erding sheep in the outback?’

  ‘You are most welcome to my home, gentlemen,’ said the sultan. ‘May I present my fiancée, Miss Irina Dalidavitch Polyakova?’

  Torrance looked around for a middle-aged woman, but in vain. There was no getting away from it: the sultan was gesturing at the blonde. She’s young enough to be his daughter, Torrance thought in disgust. No, damn it, young enough to be his granddaughter! He imagined himself speeding around the coastal roads of Monte Carlo at the wheel of the Alfa Romeo he had seen in the garage, with Irina beside him in the passenger seat, her head on his shoulder, laughing with delight at something incredibly witty he had just said. Why oh why oh why hadn’t he been born a sultan? Maybe Rossi had a point with all this socialism business…

  ‘Pleased to meet you, miss.’ Torrance might have gone with a warmer introduction, but in the light of her fiancé’s presence decided to go with stiffly polite and formal, as if he had not already torn her clothes off and ravished her with his eyes. Not that the sultan looked like anything to be afraid of, but if watching Hollywood movies had taught him one thing, it was that sultans always had a couple of muscular eunuchs standing by, ready to make anyone who transgressed against their womenfolk an unwilling recruit to their ranks.

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ Irina had exactly the sultry Russian accent her name conjured up, though there was something dishearteningly sarcastic in her tone. Weren’t beautiful blondes supposed to swoon over the handsome soldiers who came to rescue them from a fate worse than death? Then Torrance caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror on a closet door: grimy and filthy in his muddy and sooty khaki drills. Certainly not the sort of heroic figure who deserved to be swooned over by gorgeous Russian blondes. The thought reminded him he had only volunteered for this mission to get back the boat tickets MacRae had pinched, otherwise he would have been content to leave Irina, the sultan and Kitty to their fate. A feeling of shame gnawed at him, all the more painful for being so unfamiliar, and he was grateful the grime on his face concealed his blushes.