Tears of the Dragon

by Jean Moran

  ‘It’s war.’

  ‘War without honour.’

  ‘Sssh. They wouldn’t like you saying that.’

  It occurred to Connor that his senior officer was more capable of living with the slaughter than he was. Connor wondered whether a brooding fatalism lurked just beneath the other man’s bluff exterior – he often mentioned getting his remains home. Until now, Connor had always considered himself the hard man, the one who could take care of himself and remain seemingly unaffected by the brutality going on around him. But it wasn’t true. He was screaming inside. In the depth of the night he let his emotions run free, tears streaming down his face, licked away by the little dog lying at his side.

  *

  ‘A day out. What joy!’

  ‘You go Tsim Sha Tsui. Lots of work to do,’ said the portly little captain, who oversaw their work party. ‘Bomb damage. You mend. Take everything with you. Stay overnight.’

  Like the other men in the party, Harry had a jaunty air, pleased to be out on the water, travelling on the old Star ferry from Kowloon to Victoria Harbour.

  Connor was less exuberant. ‘Why take all our things?’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  Harry laughed it off, but Connor remained grim-faced. No matter how hard he tried, he could not jettison his gut feeling that there was more to this than being sent to do some labouring in the civilian camp at Fort Stanley.

  It was after six in the morning and they’d left their own camp early. The commandant had insisted they leave in time to catch the early ferry, to take what food they could carry and eat it on the boat. Two sticky rice balls per man and a few tomatoes cultivated by a corporal with shaky hands and a stammer brought on by strain: it was hardly a hearty breakfast but the best they’d get all day. The sea air made them even hungrier.

  Refusing to leave the dog behind, Connor carried Vicky down the gang plank onto the shore. She’d become a mascot to the mix of regiments and nationalities, not least because she was such a good hunter – some of the meatier and more digestible bits of her plunder went into the pot.

  ‘Hunts like a tiger,’ said one of the Indians. ‘Not bad for a dog.’

  The birds and small animals she caught went some way to augmenting the bland rice, which was sometimes augmented with vegetables or fish, but usually not.

  Guards to either side of them, the group of men made an effort to march like an army even though the soles of their boots were worn thin and the uppers were cracked with dust through lack of polish. One or two still owned a tin of polish and made the effort to keep smart. Most were too tired after a long day of labouring, their hands bleeding, their ribs bruised from beatings by the more brutal guards.

  ‘Only months since the surrender, yet to me it feels like years,’ Connor commented.

  ‘It’s not like an Irishman to be downhearted. Come on, man. Brace your back and march ever onwards! Your country needs you!’

  ‘Hah!’ Connor didn’t feel like following his friend’s advice, but he kept his mouth shut, and frowned when he recognised the building ahead of them.

  The perimeter walls and fences around the administrative block had been shattered in the fighting and had probably stayed that way. When they’d first taken charge the Japanese had had no plan in place for prisoners or, indeed, for occupying Hong Kong and the New Territories, Kowloon included. Just recently they’d begun getting up to speed.

  Connor tried to convince himself that he and the other men were there because their captors were organising things and they were not about to be put in front of a firing squad. There were the usual shouted orders and an excited exchange between the guards, who seemed to be moving more briskly today, as though, like him, they felt something in the air.

  ‘Not a bad place,’ said Connor, eyeing the women hanging up washing, the kids running around, shouting at the tops of their voices even at this early hour. They were skinny, granted, but still full of energy.

  An imposing woman, with the shoulders of a sergeant major and regal as a queen, glided towards them. The fact that her clothes were sweat-stained stole nothing from her look of absolute authority.

  ‘Good morning. I know the Nips are about to shout at me for talking to you, but we thought a little food wouldn’t go amiss, and seeing as some of our men will be joining you and they haven’t breakfasted yet, we thought it only polite to include you in their simple repast.’

  ‘Don’t mind if we do, ma’am,’ said Harry, a senior officer with as rumbling a stomach as everyone else. ‘Major Harry Gracey. How do you do?’

  ‘Marjorie Greenbank. Lady Greenbank. I keep the title bit to myself. People clam up if they think you’re upper crust.’

  ‘Really? Perhaps you know my mother. Lady Gracey. Everyone calls her Grace.’

  Marjorie frowned as she thought about it. Harry helped her along.

  ‘Her maiden name was Louise Frampton Lyons. She was born in Epsom.’

  She threw back her head. ‘Ah, yes. Of course I do. We were at school together. Good horsewoman. Good shot too. Could show this lot a thing or two,’ she said, indicating the guards with a sideways jerk of her head. ‘Well, no good all this nattering. We’ll check our store cupboard and see if we can’t get a bit of extra food for you.’

  ‘You’re an angel.’

  ‘Hardly that. Just a woman doing her bit.’

  The guards curtailed this friendly exchange, stepping between Harry and Lady Greenbank, though noticeably showing her grudging respect in response to her imperious glare.

  ‘We’ll bring something over,’ she called, as they were marched off.

  It was a fresh day but getting warmer, as was usual halfway through the year. By mid-morning Connor felt as though his empty stomach was cleaving to his spine. He was sweating and his muscles were aching, not so much because of the type of work expected of him, but purely through lack of food and drink.

  A Chinese labourer came round with buckets of water suspended from each end of a pole carried over his shoulder, a ladle passed from one man to another.

  ‘Food,’ said Connor to the guard. ‘We need food.’

  The guard laughed and stalked off.

  Connor didn’t press his luck. Make the same demand too many times and it gained you a broken rib. Hopefully Marjorie Greenbank would be able to get something to them.

  ‘Will you look at that?’

  They were building a perimeter wall that had been damaged by the enemy. They required it to be taken to the same height it had been before but with buttressing and platforms for machine-guns. There were about ten of them in the work gang. The women were not looking at their best, but the fact that they were there made the strongest of the men pine for home.

  They were teaching children or washing clothes, and the men stared until they spotted Marjorie Greenbank and four others wending their way towards them. Lady Greenbank was at the forefront, head held high, shoulders back.

  ‘She should have been our CO,’ muttered a lowly private.

  There was much laughter – but Connor was looking beyond Lady Greenbank to a face he had instantly recognised.

  He blinked, unsure at first that it was her: her figure was not as it used to be. She was wearing a shapeless red and white checked dress that reminded him of a tablecloth. It had no waistline but dropped directly from the shoulders, flapping around her shins, her arms like sticks in comparison to her girth.

  At the same time as he saw her, she saw him.

  ‘Mr O’Connor.’ She blushed as she handed him the food.

  The over-large dress confused him. She was shapeless in it.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  She nodded. ‘Where have they put you?’

  ‘The Kowloon Ritz. Otherwise known as Sham Shi Po. How did you get here? I thought you were with Kim Pheloung.’

  ‘I was, until his grandmother decided she wanted her beloved grandson to herself. She brought me here and turned me in.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I�
��m not.’

  He wondered what had gone on behind the walls of Kim’s house, but could not bring himself to ask.

  ‘He never touched me. Just in case you’re wondering.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘Now eat up. It’s not much, but it’s all we can spare. Now I’m not sure what these are called, but it’s bits of meat, rice and chillies wrapped in a vine leaf. Well, we think they’re vine leaves. And these little cakes are made from papaya and some currants we had hanging around. The pastry is made from ground rice and suet pudding.’

  Hands dived across him, taking the food and cramming it into mouths.

  When there was only enough left for him, she turned sideways so nobody else could grab it. As she did so her dress was blown to one side and Connor saw the curve of her belly.

  She saw him looking. ‘A memento of Black Christmas,’ she said bitterly.

  He threw a tiny piece of food down to his dog, needing a small diversion to give him time to think what to say. ‘What are you going to do with it when it’s born?’

  Rowena swallowed and looked away. ‘I wasn’t planning for it to be born. I’ll work something out when the time comes.’

  ‘Hopefully you’ll both survive. If you want a husband’s name on the birth certificate, I’d be willing. I think you know that.’

  ‘You don’t quite understand.’

  ‘It doesn’t need to be mine. I like kids. Any colour, male or female. You’ll bear that in mind, won’t you? That I’m willing.’

  Her eyes locked with his and he could see she was on the brink of tears.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but I wouldn’t want to burden you with my problems. Anyway, given my present circumstances, there’s no guarantee it will survive.’

  ‘Please,’ he said forlornly. ‘There’s enough death in this world. A child is blameless.’ A sudden whine reminded Connor that he wasn’t entirely alone. ‘Sorry. I haven’t introduced you. This is Victoria. Vicky for short.’

  Rowena smiled down at the little dog, who returned it with her own version, mouth open and eyes apparently laughing.

  An awkward silence descended until Connor said, ‘If you ever need anything, get word to me. One of the Chinese traders who do business here is bound to come to us. I can’t promise miracles, but I’ll do what I can. I’ve still got the present you gave me, well hidden. I can give it to you now if we can go somewhere we won’t be seen.’

  Before she had the chance to suggest a suitable place, the rest period was over and she was shoved aside, then pushed back with the other women.

  The men were being herded like cattle, prodded and beaten if they moved too slowly.

  ‘Finish now! Finish!’

  Accordingly they attempted to pick up the tools they’d been using but, with more slaps and prods, were ordered to put them down again.

  Connor’s feeling of unease returned. He craned his neck so he could see her better, thought again about the lighter and what she could do with it. Better with her than with him. Regardless of the punishment he was likely to receive, he would endeavour to give it back to her. In her condition it might buy her and the baby enough to keep them going until this was all over – whenever that might be.

  He glanced around, noting where the guards were standing and where the women were grouped in a small huddle. If he was going to make his move, it had to be soon.

  Just when he judged the time was right, he and the other men were goaded with rifle butts into a straight line. More guards appeared and a human fence formed around them.

  The stink of men’s sweat filled his nostrils.

  There were shouts from the main gate, which was swung wide to let in an open-top army staff car followed by a small truck.

  ‘I’ve got a nasty feeling about this,’ whispered Harry.

  Connor didn’t reply. His chance to hand back the lighter seemed to have gone.

  Those in the car got out. Their uniforms were not those of the regular army but as well cut as their superior facial features. They were clearly of the elite and specially chosen.

  With a sinking feeling Connor assessed them to be Kompei Tei – Japan’s equivalent of the German Gestapo, as quick to hand out punishment and death to their own people as they were to their enemies.

  The tools they’d laid down were picked up by Chinese labourers and placed in the handcart in which they’d arrived at Fort Stanley.

  Connor’s eyes met those of Harry, who mouthed one word that said it all.

  ‘Up to our necks,’ Connor mouthed back.

  They were ordered to stand to attention while the new arrivals looked them over contemptuously, as though they were not equals, not even human at all.

  At a nod from the officer who appeared to be in command, they were loaded onto the truck. Connor grabbed his dog, pushing her inside his shirt so she’d be less noticeable.

  One of the last, he looked across to where Rowena and the others stood. The big woman with the square shoulders spoke to one of the resident guards. Whatever he said to her was relayed to Rowena.

  His instinct that something bad was about to happen was etched on Rowena’s face. Whatever it was made her take a few steps forward as if to warn him of what was to happen next.

  She didn’t get close enough, her attempt prevented by the driver of the staff car, whirling round and lashing out with a karate kick to her belly.

  Connor called her name and aimed a host of expletives at the guards, promising that one day they would answer to him, that they were all bastards, all murderers, that the time of retribution would surely come.

  His outburst earned him blows from the guards stationed against the tailboard of the truck, but he took it all, arms across his chest and bending from the stomach so that no blows landed on his dog.

  There were other men in the truck and no room to sit down. There was no other option than to grip the overhead frame that supported the tarpaulin used to shade them from the sun or give cover from rain.

  ‘Not the most comfortable form of travel,’ Harry said.

  Connor mopped at his bloody nose and winced when he tried to straighten his back.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’re not going far in this old crate. I understand a bit of the language from my Oxford days. We’re taking ship, old man. We’re going to Japan to work for a firm called Mitsubishi.’

  16

  The women who had helped her get up exchanged worried looks.

  ‘She’s only seven months,’ remarked Sister O’Malley, unable to keep the worry from her face, but doing her best to jolly things along. ‘Lean on me, Rowena. We’ll get you inside. Everything will be all right.’

  Nausea rose into her throat as they laid her on the narrow bed – she could feel every slat beneath the thin mattress.

  Sister O’Malley brought her a bowl while Alice continued to mop her brow with a wet cloth. ‘Whatever did you want to say to our friend from the bar in Kowloon?’

  ‘Marjorie told me they were being shipped to Japan. I wanted to let him know.’

  Suddenly her back arched as she fought to ride the pain in her stomach and groin.

  A heavy weight bore down between her legs. The child was coming and there was every chance that the kick she’d received had done irreparable damage. Just hours ago she would have preferred it to die, but now she wanted it to live. ‘Will my baby be all right?’ She heard herself voicing the question many concerned mothers had asked her.

  O’Malley’s face was impassive, but when Rowena tried to rise from the pillow, her strong hands pushed her down. ‘Rest. Baby won’t be arriving just yet. Try to get some sleep.’

  Sleep came sporadically, along with the pains of childbirth and rape, the two inextricably combined.

  Throughout the night, she was aware of soft footsteps and comments when Alice or another nurse checked on her.

  There were whispers in the depth of night.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she thought she heard somebody say.

  ‘Positive
.’

  Positive about what? Was the child dead in her womb, thanks to that kick? Or was she dying, haemorrhaging blood? She certainly felt sticky in that area.

  Just before daybreak she heard more urgent whispers. Through her blurred vision she became aware of a third person joining the two women at the end of the bed. Forcing herself to open her eyes a little wider, she recognised Dr Anderson. The two nurses parted so he could examine her. He eased himself onto the side of the bed, taking her hand. He leaned closer and whispered so the others would not hear, ‘You never came that night when you asked me to do the unthinkable. I know this is a difficult time to ask such a question, but why was that?’

  Rowena made an attempt to lick away the dryness of her lips, but it remained. ‘I did come, but you’d fallen asleep. I felt I had no right asking you to take a life when you were doing your utmost to keep others alive.’

  ‘And you were having second thoughts.’

  She swallowed, and rode the next spasm of pain.

  ‘I suppose I was.’ She arched her back as her body was racked with pain. ‘Do you think I could stand up so gravity can give me a hand?’

  Dr Anderson agreed but seemed a little distracted. She put it down to him having been awoken in the middle of the night following a day on the ward. ‘If you think you’re up to it.’

  O’Malley and Alice helped her to her feet with Dr Anderson standing by.

  As she stood upright, fluid trickled down her legs and swiftly became a torrent pooling on the cracked brown linoleum floor.

  ‘You’ve got a good grip,’ murmured Alice. Rowena was holding her hand rather tightly.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Grip all you like, girl. I can stand it.’

  The weight inside her began to move, a rolling sensation as the foetus slid down the birth canal. Rowena gritted her teeth and took deep breaths.

  ‘Here it comes.’

  ‘I know.’ She gritted her teeth some more, analysing her own body as it went through this, feeling the head emerge, O’Malley turning it so the shoulders would come out laterally to the perineum.

  O’Malley was good at her job.

  ‘Just a little more...’ She caught the bloodied newborn in part of an old sheet she’d ripped in half for the purpose.