Close to the Wind

by David B Hill

  Tim and Len stood before him now, pleading their case. Tim nudged Len as he petitioned their Commanding Officer. ‘We’ll only go half the distance, sir. No problem.’

  Len looked at his friend and shook his head. Humour was lost on the CO. Eventually Maynard gave up, and granted several hours’ shore leave. They headed off into the city while the MLs returned to their moorings off Pulau Brani.

  ★ ★ ★

  If there had been any sense of their being outmanoeuvred by escalating Japanese aggression previously, that had changed now, replaced by incontrovertible evidence that the city and its defences were being systematically destroyed. As they made their way along the harbour’s edge, they were stopped frequently to allow emergency vehicles right of way, or heavy machinery to clear the road. Burning debris was being bulldozed into piles. Bodies, too, dozens of bodies, lay beside the road in some sort of order, as if to spite the chaos. A Chinese man sat on the road cradling the body of his wife and wailing uncontrollably while their small child clung desperately to the dead woman’s clothing. Elsewhere lay unclaimed limbs and body parts, too grim to handle. The sailors were assaulted by the insufferable odour of decomposing bodies beneath the wreckage, and by the heat that flared occasionally from the fires raging all along the way.

  Groups of civilians continued to wend their way through the destruction. Many were carrying children or old people; others were hauling rickshaws or handcarts piled with their modest possessions, away from the destruction of the inner city to the relative safety of the outskirts. Malays who customarily worked on the island had been relieved of their duties and allowed to return to the mainland to protect their families.

  Tim, Len, Jackie, Jock and Jack Kindred decided to head away from the water, walking several blocks before selecting a bar, The Golden Orchid. The fancy name concealed the fact that the bar was a hole-in-the-wall, a one-man operation so small that they practically filled the place. The owner made them welcome and put a bowl of unshelled peanuts on the board that served as a bar in front of them. Cold beers in cold glasses had them all exclaim in feigned ecstasy, and no little surprise, especially as there was clearly no electricity. No ceiling fans. No radio. No fridge.

  ‘Must be an ice box,’ Jock said. ‘Bloody good businessman.’

  Len was first away to the toilet. While he was looking for the WC, he noticed a large mobile refrigeration unit a short distance away behind the bar, with a military generator chugging along beside it. He stood at the urinal and watched through the louvred windows as the barman left the bar, opened the door of the fridge unit and carried out a dozen beers. Shortly after, two ambulance men arrived and carried a body on a stretcher out from the same unit. Len had become so inured to the spectre of war, he wasn’t sure if he was appalled or amused. Back at the bar he said nothing, but raised his glass with the rest of them.

  ‘Absent friends,’ Len said. They all took a long draught.

  Jack raised his glass again. ‘Lofty.’ And they all drank again.

  Jock topped up his glass, put his bottle down and sniffed at his hand.

  ‘Why do I smell … formaldehyde?’

  At this precise moment, air-raid sirens began to wind up eerily. It was 2 p.m.; the Japanese were nothing if not punctual.

  The bar owner immediately began to flap, literally, in his efforts to force the men out onto the street, but they remained staunchly in their seats. Len reached out with his arms and touched both sides of the bar. The walls were closing in. This was not England. This was Singapore, where the enemy was so close now his hot breath could be felt. He imagined himself as a crayfish, wedged in his crevice.

  By now the sirens were wailing.

  ‘It would be damned bad luck for a bomb to land on this bar. It’s the smallest in the Far East,’ Tim said. ‘I reckon we’re as safe here as anywhere. Five more Tigers, thanks, mate.’

  The barman capitulated and the beers arrived as anti-aircraft fire began to concentrate.

  Jackie said, ‘I hope we’re far enough away from the dock.’

  The sirens stopped, but there was no bombing, just the familiar sound of defensive fire, which began to dissipate then stopped completely. From within the little bar, they could see that the air was filled with paper: thousands of leaflets, which fluttered down and piled in small drifts in the street. The barman went out and gathered some and brought them inside.

  They all began to read.

  In bold type at the top was the word ‘ADMONITION’, and below that was a carefully worded message from the Japanese: propaganda justifying their aggression and encouraging Britain to surrender her army and her territories.

  I imagine the state of mind of you who have done so well your duty, isolated without any rescue and now surrounded by our army …

  There’s nothing wrong with my state of mind! Len thought. I know who my enemy is. Everywhere I look I see the results of his destruction. I know my duty.

  The sirens began to wail again, announcing the All Clear. Len read on:

  Upon my words we don’t kill you, treat you as officers and soldiers if you come to us.

  But if you resist against us we will give you swords.

  6

  We Will Give You Swords

  Over the last week of January, as the Japanese continued to roll back a disorganised defence, the Naval Officer Commanding Malaya, Rear Admiral Ernest Spooner, was supervising the evacuation of all specialist personnel from Singapore. The launch flotilla engaged in local patrols and ferrying personnel as the scope of their operations became progressively smaller. There was a concern about conserving the 90 octane that the big petrol engines needed. There was also a suspicion that fifth columnists were contaminating the supply. Reinforcements disembarked into an environment of disorder and destruction. They encountered firemen, civilians, even battle-weary troops working to overcome the fires and stem the flow of vital water from burst mains, and discovered an atmosphere of chaos and despondency. Japanese fighters strafed the city unimpeded.

  On 31 January, four troopships arrived in Keppel Harbour, carrying the British 18th Division, and intending to disembark them onto the Empire Dock, where some of the worst bomb damage was. Equipment was piling up for want of dispersal, and the landing was anything but orderly. Having spent the night on patrol, Len and the crew on 310 were sitting on deck resting, with mugs of Charlie’s tea between their knees. There was little conversation, but Len for one sat wondering at the value of delivering more men into a campaign that gave every impression of being already lost. Flights of Japanese bombers flew low overhead and sharpened their interest. What were they doing, if not bombing the city? Shortly after, from the Malacca Straits came the sound of action, and a dense column of black smoke began to climb into the sky, inevitably signifying a strike. A series of shouted commands brought the men on ML310 quickly to their feet. They immediately slipped their moorings and put to sea.

  The oldest ship in the convoy, Empress of Asia, had fallen behind as the rest of the convoy sped up in order to reach its destination before the Japanese could find them. Isolated, the liner was targeted by Japanese dive-bombers and set ablaze. Happily, the enemy aircraft soon ceased their attack and so, while the convoy carried on, some vessels raced to render assistance to the several thousand troops on board the lame duck. 310 was one of those that arrived at the scene. Under a pall of smoke and with flames billowing out from the rear superstructure of the stricken ship, she took her turn to nose into the bow and take off as many men as she could. Around them floated some of the Empress’s lifeboats, which had been successfully launched, as well as men in life jackets clinging to their sides or grasping at the ropes being flung towards them. Even as Len pulled at the nets that hung down from the ship, steadying them while soldiers swarmed down them to safety, others were jumping from above. Len saw fear in some men’s eyes as they boarded, but most followed his instructions: they stoically made their way aft and sat or stood quietly. Soon, however, 310 was dangerously overloaded, and reverse
d engines.

  The ship was successfully evacuated, and all but sixteen men survived. By the time 310 returned to Keppel Harbour and offloaded the evacuees, Len and the others were exhausted. Remarkably, the Empress of Asia was the only vessel to be sunk on a Singapore convoy. This particular convoy turned out to be the last to bring reinforcements to the island fortress.

  That same night, 31 January, the causeway was blown up. Richard Pool came back on board 310 the following morning from the Admiral’s office where he had been working.

  ‘We blew the causeway last night,’ he announced, and continued describing how he had watched a group of Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders cross the causeway, preceded by bagpipes piping ‘Highland Laddie’ before engineers blew a seventy-yard section of it to smithereens.

  ‘It was magnificent,’ he enthused.

  Len shook his head. He continued to be amazed at the British preoccupation with ceremony, even in a city under siege. As far as he could see, the event was not something to be celebrated. Overhead, a huge pall of dense black smoke rising from the burning tank farm at the Naval Base twenty miles away nearly covered the city. Len could feel the walls getting closer.

  ★ ★ ★

  From 01 February, a state of siege prevailed on the island. The media and other authorities were cautioned about even using the word, or being at all defeatist in their language, but when it became apparent shortly afterwards that the Naval fuel dump had been deliberately destroyed to prevent it falling into enemy hands, morale within the desperate population descended to a new low.

  On 01 February a new set of orders was issued to the launch flotilla. The Fairmiles and HDMLs were assigned to operate in the Johor Strait, conducting inshore patrols from Pasir Lebar in the west to Pulau Ubin in the east. There were also personnel changes. Lieutenant Maynard was replaced as CO on ML310 by Johnny Bull, who had been promoted after very effective service as Colin McMillan’s First Officer on HDML1062. Tim was glad of the change, as was Len, who wondered if Pool had had anything to do with it. Richard Pool had proved to be a bit of an unknown quantity – he was apparently capable, but still possessed a youthful mix of naivety and ambition. Len had seen Maynard call on him when they were attacked by bombers off Muar, and on occasions, when Maynard had hesitated, Pool or Malcolm Henderson had stepped up and given commands. It was obvious to Len that Pool regarded Maynard a little contemptuously, and his attitude towards the ratings wasn’t much different. Len had learned on Alynbank that Regular Navy was inclined to be that way with Volunteer Reservists.

  Sub-Lieutenant Bull RNZNVR was well pleased with his new command. He inherited a crew that had matured into a highly efficient unit. His Executive Officer was solid, the Coxswain enjoyed a lot of respect among the officers as well as the other ratings and the engine room was in good hands. The rest of his crew was self-motivated and required little instruction. Overall, the crew seemed to enjoy their work, and the Fairmile proved the perfect vessel for them – small, quick and responsive.

  The crew in turn greeted Johnny’s arrival with enthusiasm – especially the Kiwis. They were serving at last under a Kiwi commander, and they felt their confidence strengthen in their knowledge of the man himself and their shared background.

  ‘Good on you, sir. Welcome aboard,’ Tim said to Johnny, on the group’s behalf.

  On 04 February, their confidence was put to the test. It was decided to send two engineer observers on a mission, to reassess the western Straits’ defensive needs and the size and intent of any Japanese force that they might find. The Commander Far East, General Wavell, was firmly of the belief that the Japanese would attack across the Straits from the north-west and head by the most direct route to the heart of the city. General Percival, Commander Singapore and Wavell’s subordinate, did not share this view, believing that the attack would more likely come from the north-east, targeting the strategically important Naval Base. But he had to demonstrate obedience to his superiors, even if he lacked intent, and a reconnaissance was undertaken, and the job was given to ML310.

  That night, when darkness descended, the Fairmile shrugged off its camouflage and started its engines. The air was heavy, with low cloud and high humidity, lit only to the north-east by the intense glow of the burning oil tanks. ML311 had already disappeared from its mooring on a mission of its own when the two officer observers arrived, and 310 cast off and headed quietly into the night. The briefing stressed the need for silence throughout the mission, and, to avoid the possibility of detection, the vessel moved at a low speed and kept to the southern side of the strait in the beginning. Eventually, when the ML had reached the end of its assigned passage, it motored even more quietly across to the opposite side and began its journey home. If the enemy had reached the northern shores of the straits, they would be sailing right under his nose.

  Tonight Len and Tim had been tasked with manning the forward three-inch gun, as a team. Tim as gun layer opened the ammunition locker and laid and locked a magazine into the weapon’s breech. Len took the gunner’s seat and sat at his gun, occasionally – automatically – running his hand over the weapon, taking reassurance from its familiarity beneath his touch. He cranked it through its firing arc, then sat back into his seat and reached for a cloth to wipe his hands.

  The same conditions that were hiding the ML from detection were also obscuring any sign of the enemy. He could be anywhere; except for the gentle throb of the engines under foot and the occasional burble of the exhausts, they heard and saw nothing. The men looked for any clues, and cocked their ears for other sounds, but there was nothing. Once something in the water, animal perhaps, splashed away in the dark. Twice they bumped into a log or something solid. These were heart-pounding moments that passed with a deep breath and a relaxation of the men’s trigger fingers. They were under instructions not to fire unless fired upon.

  And so the time passed.

  Nothing.

  After eight hours of gentle passage, the city’s fires appeared in front of them again, and they were back on a mooring as the sun rose. 311 followed soon after.

  Both Fairmile crews were then offered a brief stand-down; some took shore leave while others elected to stay on board. They had acquired an extra dinghy, an inflatable, so about ten men from both boats secured a short-term pass and took off in the two small tenders. Len, Tim and Jackie welcomed Jack Kindred from 311. At the dockyard gates, while they stood in line to present their passes, Lieutenant Pool drove past them in a civilian vehicle, pushing his way through the people thronging the gates, and headed off towards the city on some business or other, offering no acknowledgement at all. Behind Pool’s vehicle came a lorry, one of dozens that continued to be landed, jamming the dockyards. It drew abreast of the men as they emerged onto the street, and Tim yelled out to the driver, ‘Mate, where are you headed?’

  ‘Raffles ’otel. You looking for a ride? ’op in,’ the Cockney driver replied.

  The men clambered into the back of the truck while Len followed Tim up and into the cab. The driver crashed the gears and took off with a lurch.

  ‘I’ll get my arse kicked, but what the ’ell. In the scheme of things I doubt if any bastard will notice.’

  They rarely got beyond first gear. All along the roadside, vehicles lay derelict, damaged or destroyed. Reinforcements that had landed from the Empress of Asia found themselves mixing with parts of the retreating army, which was now filling the city. Leaderless units lay about exhausted, despondent and angry: an anger that was compounded hugely by the spectre of new and unused weapons and equipment being pushed straight off the dock and into the sea. This did nothing for morale. Australian troops in particular, volunteer members of the Australian Imperial Force, newly arrived and with only the most basic of training, became extremely agitated by their assessment of the circumstances, and many could be seen huddled in groups on corners, drinking from bottles, broken glass strewn about them. Some were violently disposed; from one group bottles came flying through the air to land on the ro
ad in front of the lorry. Nobody seemed to be keeping discipline.

  Away from the shore, the cost of the war to the ordinary citizens again confronted the sailors. More bodies lay on street corners, piled waiting for removal. People scrabbled at rubble, pulling at pieces of bloodied clothing, body parts perhaps, or dragging other items to safety. Len turned away from the sight of an old woman squatting beside the body of her dead husband, wailing dismally and beating herself on the temple with a piece of brick. Nobody was giving her any notice. A cry drew everybody to another section of the wreckage, and the truck moved slowly on. They drove around the Padang, past several anti-aircraft emplacements, and eventually arrived at the entrance of Raffles Hotel. The driver dragged on the handbrake and turned the engine off. Tim and Len shook his hand, wished him luck and joined the others, who were climbing down at the rear.

  ‘Bugger me. Will you look at that,’ said Johnno, and they all looked to where he was pointing, to see Pool’s car parked under a fan palm to the side of the drive.

  ‘Come on,’ said somebody. ‘Let’s go and find the bastard. He can buy us a drink!’

  They all headed for the entrance. As they climbed the stairs a huge Sikh, in full hotel livery, headed them off, threw up a large hand and barred their way inside.

  ‘I’m sorry gentlemen, but this is off limits to everybody but officers. You may not enter.’

  They baulked like sheep, bumping into each other before stopping. The Sikh gave Charlie a sideways glance, looking him up and down.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ Tim said. ‘Just one drink. Our favourite lieutenant is inside, and he’s dying to see us, I’m sure.’

  ‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. You may not enter. Only officers may enter.’

  And that was that. Uniformed officers of every distinction passed them by, and numerous civilians in linen jackets. The sound of band music wafted from somewhere inside.