by Hall, Ian
Yes, he thought, Keith and company had had a lucky escape but near-misses were a routine part of all their lives. He settled back and closed his eyes; setting aside all thoughts of forced landings, he turned his mind to the other events of his day.
****
He must have drifted off into a deep sleep, for he took a moment or two to realise where he was when he came to with the nav leaning over him and shaking him by the shoulder.
“Come on then, you, we’re nearly there! You must have been sleeping the sleep of the dead; it’s taken me ages to wake you.”
“Sorry, yes.” Freddie shook his head. “It’s been a long day. Where are we?”
“Just descending into Kemajoran. The crash site’s apparently only four miles from the airfield and the skipper’s going to take a look see. We’ve been following the setting sun westwards and there’s still just about enough light to pick out ground features, so we should get a good view. Come and join us up front.”
Freddie heaved himself out of the seat and followed the retreating figure towards the cockpit. All the crew were craning out of the windows; the skipper glanced round at Freddie and indicated over the port side of the nose.
“You see that clearing in the undergrowth just short of the village over there – looks like a paddy field or the like?”
Freddie followed his pointing finger, picked out the spot without difficulty, and stuck up a thumb.
The skipper returned his attention to flying the aircraft, and soon they’d all locked on to the outline of the stricken Dak, clearly visible now just a hundred yards or so from the edge of the scrubby jungle. A short trail of debris and broken-down scrub indicated its landing path, and although the fuselage and much of the wings appeared to be completely burnt out, the aircraft’s wingtips and tail section looked intact.
“Apparently they all got out before the fire really took hold,” observed the co-pilot. “Lucky. Looks as though it turned into a hell of a blaze.”
“Yeah, at least something went right for them,” commented the nav.
They were overhead now and losing sight of the area under the nose. They’d noted the odd figure moving amongst the wreckage – locals, they’d guessed, sifting for souvenirs. But otherwise all had seemed quiet in the surrounding area. There had been little sign of activity at the village which lay in the next clearing.
“Okay, chaps.” It was the skipper. “There’s nothing more to see there so let’s get down to the job of landing this old lady. The sooner we do so, the sooner we can buy those guys a drink and hear their side of the story.”
CHAPTER 19
Freddie wasted no time in jumping out, and made straight for the canteen. Through the cloud of smoke which seemed to hang downwards from the ceiling, he immediately caught sight of Ken’s head over on the far side. Pushing through the scrum of bodies and picking up a pint on the way, he eventually arrived at his skipper’s side.
“Hi there. I gather I’ve missed all the excitement!”
“Oh, hello Freddie. You’re helluva late. But I hear you had a bit of your own adventure today. Welcome back.”
“Thanks – but that can wait. Where are Keith and the others? What’s the latest?”
Ken looked around for a quieter spot, and spotting an open doorway took Freddie’s arm and propelled him towards it. “I can hardly hear myself think in here. Let’s get some fresh air.”
As soon as they were outside Ken began to speak.
“The latest is that the chaps are still missing.”
“Oh no …” Freddie interjected. “I’d heard that all was well …”
“Calm down. As far as we know, it is,” said Ken. “But we’ve not found them yet. As soon as air traffic control raised the alarm, the RAF Regiment boys got together a search party and set off. A few of the squadron lads joined them. They had a perfect pinpoint from the Thunderbolt pilot …” He stopped suddenly. “Hey, are you up with the story so far? I might have lost you already.”
“No,” returned Freddie, “I’ve got it up to there. They had an engine failure and put it down in the jungle – but they were all seen to walk away from it, seemingly fit and well. I’ve seen the wreckage from the air, just four or five miles away.”
“Yes, that’s all correct. I just wasn’t sure how much you knew. Anyway, the brush was apparently pretty thick out in that direction, and the rescue party took a good deal longer to reach the spot than they’d anticipated. Having eventually got there, they had a poke around and made all the usual calls, sent up flares and so on. But nothing came of it. The crash site and the immediate surrounds were deserted. It was possible that the survivors had set off for the airbase and had missed the search party in the undergrowth. But by this time it was pretty well dark, and in view of the uncertainty of the local situation – possibility of Indonesian snipers and the like – they were forced to call off the search for the night. They’ll resume at first light.”
“That’s not so good.” Freddie was thoughtful. “Although I suppose we’ll have to assume that the lads can look after themselves for just one night. Bound to be a few boy scouts amongst the crew, and of course they’ve got the army with them.”
“Yep. They were all armed and they’ll be fine. But I’d still rather they were safely back. How’d your rendezvous go today by the way?”
“Oh – very well indeed. Successful. Interesting. I’ll tell you all about it another time.”
Knowing there was only really one subject on all of their minds at that moment, Ken let it go. The two of them raised their glasses and retired into their own thoughts.
****
Later that night the squadron commander tossed fitfully in his bed, turning for what seemed like the hundredth time and wiping a hand across his perspiring brow. His bunk felt even more uncomfortable than usual and there was too much churning in his head for him to expect to get to sleep. From the first-hand report he’d received he knew a little more of the evening’s events than Ken had recounted to Freddie, and the intelligence wasn’t reassuring. So much so that he’d ordered the searchers not to talk about all they’d seen and heard.
The leader of the search party had prudently, in view of the uncertainty of the local situation, called off their efforts as darkness fell after finding no signs of the missing men. But he’d had the disquieting information to report that, as they’d retreated from the area of the crash site, there had been confusing sounds from the shadowy depths of the jungle behind them. Shouts. And excited whoops of exclamation. They couldn’t be sure who was making the noise, nor could they make any sense of it – but they were certain the voices were native.
It was also reported that, at the time the party was in the vicinity of the wreckage, there had been no sign of life and everything had been quiet. Nor, in the gloom, had they found any obvious signs of anything that would give a clue to events following the crash landing.
Macnamara knew that the passengers on the missing aircraft were a twenty-strong platoon of Indian army soldiers. So it was not impossible that the sounds of foreign voices had been from them. But the gremlins in his mind insistently suggested to him that there was a more sinister explanation. The search party leader had been pretty certain that the sounds they had heard had come from many more than just the passengers and crew.
Maybe daybreak would lighten the CO’s mood. He hoped so. But for now he was locked in the shadows of the night. For the hundredth time he turned over and pulled his damp, crumpled sheet around him in yet another bid to find sleep.
****
The next morning saw a full-scale search being launched, led by the RAF Regiment and this time supplemented by heavily-armed men from the local army garrison. Volunteers from the squadron boosted the numbers; Macnamara had hesitated before authorising this, conscious that his men might be too close to and emotionally involved with the downed crew to be able to play a detached and objective part in the operation. But against his better judgement he’d retreated in the face of the huge groundswell
of desire to help and to be involved. Now, newly promoted Corporal Arthur Brownlow was at the head of one of the platoons of searchers as the force received its briefing.
“I can’t emphasise enough the need for the utmost care,” concluded the commander. “We just don’t know what we’ll find or who might be lurking in the bush.” The men shuffled and shifted. They knew this already, and were impatient to be under way.
The patrols split and made for their assigned areas, moving warily. But all seemed quiet. Unnaturally so, it seemed to many. Not a soul was moving in the scrubby undergrowth. Every broken twig beneath their feet seemed to go off like a crack of gunshot. Was it their imagination, or was even the birdsong muted?
One of the groups was tasked with making a thorough search of the aircraft wreckage, the formerly live machine now lying, cold. The hulk was black, stinking of fire, broken and inanimate.
Before long there came a shout. “There’s a revolver in the locker under the seat here. It’s one of ours.”
“Make a note of the serial number. I’ll radio it in immediately. They’ll have a record of who it was issued to. It’ll help to check the identity of those who were aboard …”
The unspoken second half of the sentence hung in the air: ‘… in the event that we don’t find anything else …’ Like automatons they resumed their combing of the wreckage.
Brownlow gingerly led his small group onwards through the undergrowth. Had they been in single file it would have been relatively simple to keep to tracks they found, but they needed to cover the whole area thoroughly and were pushing through the scrub in line abreast, each separated from his neighbours by a few feet. It was tortuous progress, and before long their sweating bodies were a mass of scratches and insect bites. After a while relief came as the tree canopy thinned with their approach to the edge of a village. Arthur consulted his map, his dirty fingernail tracing the crumpled sheet and his eyes squinting to decipher the unfamiliar hieroglyphics.
“I reckon we’re about … here,” he finally announced, turning the map this way and that in an effort to make sense of the name. “Bekasi,” I think it says. “Bi-kaah-si” he repeated, having another go at the pronunciation. “Yes, I think that must be it.”
Brownlow spread his men out around the perimeter, remaining in cover while they checked the area. At one point he was certain he saw a shadowy movement, and they froze. But there seemed to be nothing.
Then it was there again. What appeared to be a very old woman was cowering in the shadow of a wall.
“She looks pretty harmless.” Brownlow’s deputy, appearing at his elbow, indicated the figure. “I’ll go and check her out.”
“Wait.” The corporal’s hand restrained the man.” She could be bait in a trap. I’m going to radio for reinforcements.”
They settled down for an uncomfortable wait, keeping a wary eye on the old woman and, at the same time, hearing something sinister in every little jungle sound. Eventually reassured that they were sufficiently prepared, the men proceeded gingerly into the village.
The old woman was squatting in her ragged black clothing between two huts, and she drew back fearfully as Brownlow approached. His attempts to communicate brought no response. It was clear that she didn’t speak English, but at least she seemed to be no kind of threat. She trembled, her knuckles clamped to her mouth.
Arthur left her with a guard and continued with his search. Although there were signs of recent occupation – warm embers of a fire, food scraps and the like – there now appeared to be nothing in the village which would offer any clues to their quest.
A moment later, he was called urgently back by the woman’s guard.
This time she was gesticulating and jabbering. A stream of wh0at was presumably her native language was pouring from her in a thin, quavering, high-pitched voice.
There was nothing they understood, although two or three times Brownlow felt sure he could identify something sounding like the village name. Not ‘Bi-kaah-si’ as he, a native English speaker, had previously guessed. But more as ‘Bu-ka-si’ – three very short and distinct syllables with similar stress on each. There it was again, and now he was sure that was what she was saying: Bu-ka-si.
Now she was scrambling unsteadily to her feet, seemingly indicating that they should follow a track leading into the scrub from the lower end of the village.
“Careful, corp – there’s something very wrong here.” The airman guarding the woman was jumpy, his eyes darting across the undergrowth.
Brownlow felt equally uneasy. The woman was pointing down a hill, and offering a spade which had been propped against the wall of a hut.
The ground gradually sloped in the direction she had indicated towards a valley and, carefully, Brownlow and two of his men followed, cautiously leaving the bulk of their force to cover their backs.
Just out of sight of the village the track ran out of the undergrowth by the side of a small river. On the bank, the old woman pointed at some newly turned earth and then, covering her face with her gnarled hands, scuttled back into the shadow of the wood.
Arthur moved reluctantly forward to the river bank and readied the spade. “I don’t like this at all. But we’re going to have to do it.”
He stood his weight on the implement, and the fresh earth came away easily enough. Almost immediately the blade hit up against something more substantial.
“Oh Lord!”
Carefully, he worked around, and within a minute or so a form began to show in the disturbed earth.
The others joined in with sticks and bare hands until they were able to pull the body clear. And as they did so the extent of the horror became clear.
Brownlow recoiled, gagging momentarily. But an inner steel in him told him he had to go on. Looking along at the extent of the fresh grave he knew immediately that he needed help. He ordered a radio call to be made detailing the location and possible scale of their discovery. Looking again at the corpse he felt an upsurge of anger rising from deep within, and an involuntary groan forced itself from his deepest being. He made a half-hearted grab for the old woman, who shrunk away in terror. His men pulled him back, and as quickly as it had risen, his rage subsided as reason told him that this frail creature had most probably been merely an innocent bystander as the events of the night had unfolded.
“Take it easy now, corp. That won’t do no good.”
“I know, I know.” He shook himself free. “I’m all right now.”
He glanced again at the corpse, and now he felt the bile rising. Staggering into the edge of the brush he was violently sick. Convulsion after convulsion racked his body until he felt that there couldn’t possibly any more to bring up. At last the spasm passed and he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He was deathly pale, and meekly nodded as one of his men took his arm and gently sat him down, leaning up against a tree trunk. As the minutes passed, his breathing resumed an easier, more even pattern.
While he recovered, his platoon continued their awful work. From time to time there were exclamations of shock as evidence emerged of new horrors, but by and large they worked in silence. Occasionally others would retreat into the scrub, their bodies wracked with spasms, before returning and resuming their labour. Numbed as they were by what they were uncovering, they dug like automatons. The old woman was still squatting, jabbering to herself in her thin, reedy pipe, on the edge of the forest. ‘Bu-ka-si … Bu-ka-si.’ The name pierced their consciousness, denying any escape. The name which was to come to symbolise so much horror to so many was already haunting them.
Eventually, reinforcements arrived with more spades, and with relief Brownlow’s traumatised group were stood down. Before long, the remains of all 25 bodies – passengers and crew – were laid out in grim ranks on the river bank. The atmosphere grew even more oppressive as the thunder clouds prepared to disgorge their daily torrential rainfall.
A military photographer arrived to record the evidence. The bodies. The shallow mass grave. The black blood o
n the earth. All were registered for posterity before the monsoon cleansed the earth and washed away all signs of what looked, indisputably, to be a hideous crime.
CHAPTER 20
Back at Kemajorang Airfield the atmosphere was tense and unreal. Work continued with the daily round of casualty evacuation, but the airmen’s thoughts were inevitably dragged back towards the incident. Although no official word had come, talk was abroad that something dreadful had been discovered. The men’s mission continued, the flow of released internees demanding their attention, but they worked mechanically, their minds elsewhere.
The senior staffs patiently collated information as it came in from the search area and local army units, but the complete picture would still take some time to emerge. Red herrings led the investigation up distracting side alleys. The revolver found in the aircraft wreckage had caused alarm when it was found to be Barney’s. Although he was believed not to have been on the flight, he was nevertheless listed as missing. It wasn’t for an hour or two that he was found in the station sick quarters, still suffering from his stomach trouble. He had loaned his gun to another.
Soon after lunchtime the NCO who had relieved Corporal Brownlow at the site of the grave returned to give his report. With the aid of an interpreter, he’d been able to question the old woman, and her evidence filled in for the senior staff the full horror of the detail.
“God, I don’t believe this.” Macnamara was up from the table and opening the window, gulping in fresh air. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. Recovering somewhat, he took his place again, rejoining the other senior officers who had gathered to go through the report.
