by Hall, Ian
“That’s right. And in any case, I don’t think we’re in a position to tell people to write. But still, I’m anxious that we should do what we can to help in the circumstances. And I wonder whether you, Dusty, would care to help out? Somehow, I sense that a letter from you would go down better than from anyone else I can think of.”
Dusty thought for a few moments. He fully understood the situation, and the adj’s request was reasonable. He knew little of John’s family; their relationship at the bridge table had simply not stretched into the realms of the personal. He sensed that getting started on a letter wouldn’t be easy, but he’d lost a brother himself earlier in the war and that experience told him that the words would probably come of their own accord once he got under way. He knew how his own parents had been affected by the death of their eldest son, and how the letters and contact they’d received at that dreadful time had helped them – even if only a little.
“Of course I’ll do it. Willingly.”
The adj knew he’d asked the right man, and Dusty’s acceptance of the job took a weight off his mind.
CHAPTER 24
Dusty was still thinking about how he’d approach the task as he checked in with Ken and the rest of the crew the following day and picked up their brief for Solo. The airfield, which had only recently come into use, was handy for a couple of the camps that hadn’t yet been evacuated, and lay in territory which contained many sympathisers of the Indonesian freedom movement. But following the Bekasi episode and the apparent softening of the rebels’ approach to the British, the head of the area’s local forces had been to Kemajoran several times in past weeks to negotiate a safe passage to Solo for the Dakotas engaged in the humanitarian task. Those talks had been successful, and flights had proceeded relatively uneventfully for the first few days of the new mission, during which hundreds of emaciated but grateful Dutch men, women and children had been brought out. It was widely rumoured that the Indonesian commander had been paid a substantial sum for his part in the bargain. Whatever the case, it had seemed a pragmatic step to place the strip at Solo and the handover of the POWs under his nominal control – if only to satisfy the man’s vanity.
As they climbed aboard the gleaming ‘A for Able’, Ken echoed the squadron commander’s parting shot from the following evening: “Now don’t forget you chaps, we’re under strict instructions not to make a mess of this kite. The ENSA concert party will be coming out next week and we’ll be ferrying them around. It’s Mac’s intention that we’ll be using this machine, so he doesn’t want any of your usual filthy habits mucking it up. Understood?”
There was a twinkle in his eye, but they got the idea. It was a working aircraft, but it would be nice if it could be kept in factory finish for as long as possible. They were nodding in agreement when the first elements of the day’s load began to be hefted in through the fuselage door. The sack landed with a thump on the floor and immediately split open across its length. A dense white cloud issued forth, filling the cabin and coating every surface in sight. The crew coughed and spluttered in the fog, retreating as far as they reasonably could towards the flight deck, opening windows as they went.
Flour. A fairly common load to the out-stations, and always a messy one. Even the bags that didn’t burst still seemed to leak from every pore and seam. Their contents found each nook and cranny in the aircraft, and the crews had always cursed the need to transport flour.
Not that it was the very worst of cargoes. Thirty-One’s loads over the years in India and Burma had included some extraordinary items. There had been mules, which the crews to a man had grown to loathe. The army had used pack mules in the jungle, and every now and then had needed replacement animals. The wretched beasts had had to be dragged, kicking, spitting and bucking, up the ramp, and woe betide anyone who’d got in the way of their flailing hooves. On occasions one or two had slipped their tethers whilst airborne and run amok in the fuselage, with near-disastrous consequences. And of course they’d pissed everywhere. Despite the crews’ best efforts at protecting the floor, the pungent liquid always found its way through cracks, with the potential for doing its corrosive work below the floor.
Yes, they’d been worse than flour, but the latter was still up near the top of the list of least-liked cargoes. And they lost no time in cleaning it up as best they could. Not just because the squadron commander wanted his shiny aircraft to remain in tip-top shape, but also because they knew that a spot of rain or condensation would soon render it into a sticky dough – which would then dry hard as concrete and would be the devil’s own job to remove.
Sergeant Bernie Moore pitched in willingly. Keith Smith’s replacement, he was another wet-eared pilot straight out of training. But he was as keen as mustard and the crew’s verdict thus far was that he was doing all right. Knowing the circumstances which had led to his joining them, he’d been slightly worried at taking the seat of one who had been such a popular comrade. But his gregarious and likeable nature had ensured that there would be no undue difficulty. The crew undoubtedly had painful memories, but as combat airmen they knew how to live with those sad aspects of the job. So Bernie had received a warm welcome and was now ‘one of them’.
Corporal Arthur Brownlow was also with the crew. Because there were no technical facilities at Solo, a fitter and a small pack of tools and spares – wheels, jacks and so on – was always carried on these flights. It was a while since they’d seen him, and they exchanged easy banter and caught up with each other’s news.
Bert Edwards was aboard, in the expectation that there would be work for him on the return flight amongst the newly released internees. His stretchers and equipment were already neatly stowed and he mucked in with the rest of them on the cleaning up work. Before very long they were satisfied they’d done what they could.
Having at last got the flight under way, Ken settled down to enjoy the lovely day. The mission should be a routine doddle, and that expectation persisted throughout a smooth and trouble-free approach to the jungle strip. But as he called for the final landing checks Ken’s equilibrium was upset. For a moment he could have sworn that he’d caught a glimpse of a couple of vehicles pulling off the strip and into the surrounding undergrowth. They seemed to disappear, though, and as he concentrated on the flare he really couldn’t be sure. But as they taxied in towards their usual parking area their usual party of Japanese unloaders wasn’t waiting for them. Nor indeed was there any sign of their return passengers and their escorts. That all wasn’t quite as it should be seemed to be confirmed by a glint of sunlight reflecting off something metallic in the long grass, and Ken felt a sudden spasm of unease. He leaned back and shouted to the rear crew: “Take care opening the door, boys. I get the feeling something’s up.”
Freddie inched the door open, and just as quickly slammed it shut again. “Blimey. There’s a ring of soldiers pointing rifles at us!”
Now Ken could see clearly what the sun had been reflecting off. He ducked down behind the coaming, as did his co-pilot.
“I don’t know quite what’s going on here but it’s not healthy. Let’s take whatever cover we can and get ourselves prepared for anything.” And reaching around he got out his service revolver, checking the chambers were full.
The sound of a Jeep roaring up filtered in through the open cockpit windows. Dusty had found himself a position from whence he could remain in cover and yet keep an eye on the outside world, and he strained to pick up what was going on. He could hear his heart pounding, and could see alarm written on the faces of the other crewmembers.
Craning upwards to his spyhole, Dusty made out a portly figure in ornate uniform standing up in the passenger seat, gesticulating, and now they could hear his raised voice. He was sure he’d seen the man before, visiting Kemajoran.
“It’s the local chief! And by God, does he look mad!”
The torrent of words continued to batter the aircraft for a good two minutes. When the man eventually stopped, a woman’s voice took over. Dusty peer
ed out from his hiding place and saw that a female translator in uniform was speaking from the Jeep’s back seat.
“My commander is angry that you are using a Dutch aircraft. This is against the agreement he has with you. He demands that your captain comes out to explain.”
Dusty looked out again, and he could see that the Indonesian was still apoplectic. It was hard to make out what rank he was wearing, but his scarlet uniform jacket certainly bore impressive amounts of gold braid. His breeches, though, were crumpled in concertina fashion as though they’d been built for somebody at least six inches taller. Altogether he exuded the faintly ridiculous air of a character from a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. But his lungs were clearly in good shape. He had started ranting again, and was pointing repeatedly at the Dakota. The penny dropped.
“It seems to be the roundels, skip. He thinks they’re Dutch markings.”
“Oh, gawd.” Although he’d initially been unable to fathom what could have triggered the reception party, Ken could now see that this was almost certainly the root cause of the problem. “All right, I suppose we ought to be able to convince him of what the situation actually is. I wish to hell someone had seen this one coming.”
He cupped his hands and shouted through his open side screen: “I will come out if you will tell your men to put down their guns.”
Dusty could see the woman translating the message, and the chief turning round and gesturing to his ring of men.
The woman’s voice came once again. “My commander has done as you have asked. Now he requires you to come with an explanation.”
“The troops seem to have complied,” said Dusty. “It looks reasonably safe.”
“Okay, chaps,” announced Ken, “stay under cover. And keep your revolvers handy. I’ll go and talk to the silly little bugger.” He rummaged around for a service hat, and finding a battered article which seemed to be his he rammed it onto his head.
Brownlow carefully inched open the door, and all remained quiet. He lowered the ladder. The skipper moved gingerly into the door opening and stepped down. Advancing at a measured pace towards his opposite number he saluted and held out his hand.
Ignoring it, the Indonesian at once recommenced his diatribe. His arms waved, his neck bulged over his collar and his face reddened. Flecks of spittle sprayed from his mouth.
Ken stood firm, guessing that the man was merely repeating the original message. He thought he could catch the occasional ‘Nederland’ – or something similar – in the torrent.
Immediately the tap was switched off, the woman interpreted.
“My commander says that you have no permission to use a Dutch aircraft. He will not allow it. You have expressly broken the terms of the agreement. The mission is terminated and he is impounding the aircraft.”
Ken thought for a moment, and then patiently explained the situation. That Dutch markings were actually a circle divided into equal, 120˚ segments of red, white and blue. That the British roundel comprised three concentric circles of red white and blue. That the RAF had adopted the blue and white scheme for the duration of the conflict in the Far East purely to avoid any possible confusion with the red Japanese rising sun. And that, now the war was over, RAF aircraft were beginning to be restored to their traditional livery. He passed these points to the interpreter one by one, slowly and clearly, pausing while she relayed them.
The chief listened until she was finished, and spoke again. His tone seemed to have moderated somewhat, but his message remained negative. The woman passed it on: “He says he has visited your base many times and has only ever seen blue and white markings. He says that he personally would need to approve any change. You may not leave until this matter is settled.”
And with that, the Indonesian barked a short order, following which his men rose from the long grass as one. Ken braced himself, preparing either to drop for cover or to run. But the soldiers made no move to approach him. Instead, they broke into a double and redeployed themselves closely around the front of the aircraft. The Dakota’s way out was now effectively barred.
Immediately this manoeuvre was complete, the commander gabbled a new set of instructions to Ken, via the woman.
“You must have your superior come and explain this transgression. Until he does, you stay here.”
And with that he sat down with his gaze fixed pointedly straight ahead rather than at Ken. The interview was clearly terminated. He gestured to the driver and the Jeep roared off in a cloud of dust, leaving the soldiers guarding the Dak.
Ken turned and moved slowly back to the fuselage door, keeping a surreptitious eye on the rifles. But nothing moved, and he climbed the steps. As he swung himself in, he glimpsed the Jeep in the distance. It seemed to be slowing down, and as it passed the mouth of a track leading out from the undergrowth a couple of trucks joined it. The little convoy accelerated away and was soon out of view. Ken drew a sigh of relief and sat down. Bert brought him a cold drink, which he downed quickly.
“Thanks. I needed that.”
The tension had visibly lifted as Ken regained the relative safety of the aircraft. “Wow, exclaimed Bernie. I haven’t seen a rage like that since my old maths teacher was trying to get us third-formers to understand simultaneous equations!”
Ken smiled, somewhat weakly.
“So what’s the story, skip? What we suspected?” Bernie again.
“Yes, exactly. The silly sod can’t – or won’t – understand that these are pukkah RAF markings. He insists that they’re Dutch, and that we’re breaking the terms of the agreement by using an unauthorised aircraft. For all I know he probably thinks we’re Dutch, too. He’s left his men guarding us – and also blocking our way. Says it’ll take a visit by Mac – at least Mac if not the station commander, I should think – to convince him to let us go.”
“Bad luck on the internees,” observed Dusty.
“I think I might have caught a glimpse of them being taken back to their camp. Yes, very bad luck, and bloody disappointing for them I imagine. But I don’t suppose, in the end, that one more day will make an enormous difference to them, given all that they’ve been through.”
“Well no,” said Bert. “Possibly. Although there’s no saying how close they are to the end of their tethers. The disappointment of today might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back for one or two of them.”
“Well there’s nothing we can do for them directly just now.” Ken found it hard to prevent a tinge of irritability entering his voice. “More to the point, it’ll be more than one more day unless we can unravel this mess. Anybody got any ideas?”
“There must be a friendly garrison of some sort around here,” said Dusty. “If only a small one to guard the internees.”
“I’m not sure that there is,” came back Ken. “As I understand it, part of the agreement is that control of the prisoners has been given to El Generalissimo. And gawd help them, if this afternoon’s rage is typical. He must have the shortest fuse in the east.”
“Anyway,” added Bert, “we don’t have any possible way to communicate with the camp. What with not knowing its whereabouts, and also bearing in mind our friends standing guard outside, I don’t suppose any of us are going to volunteer to run there with a message.”
There was a general nod and mutter of assent. A silence fell.
It was broken by Freddie. “We’re surrounded by trees, so there’s no chance of line-of-sight radio communication with any ground station. But we could try broadcasting on the squadron channel in the hope of attracting an overflying aircraft.”
“That’s a very good scheme, my boy. You’re a wizard. Now I know why we’ve been carrying you around all this time!” Ken patted Freddie on the head, hoping the tone of his response would serve to lighten the mood a little. “I wonder whether we should just do it randomly, or establish some sort of intermittent pattern. How long will the batteries last?”
“Should be plenty in them,” said Dusty, “and I don’t think the radio will drain them
a lot. But the squadron’s bound to send someone looking for us when we don’t show up on ETA, and we must be certain that we’ve power left for when we see somebody searching. So I vote for just intermittent transmissions initially, switching off in between times to conserve juice.”
“Isn’t there another consideration?” said Bernie. There’s no ground power cart here, so if our batteries fail we’ll not be well placed when we eventually need to start the engines.”
“We can hand crank them if necessary.” It was Arthur Brownlow, their fitter. “Hell of a job, but I’ve got all the kit if necessary.”
“So that’s decided then,” summarised Ken. “We’ll broadcast every 20 minutes and listen out for a further five minutes for a reply. In between times we’ll switch off to conserve battery life. Anybody see any holes in that plan?”
They shook their heads, and Freddie went forward to make the initial call.
****
Now it was a case of waiting, making themselves as comfortable as possible on the aircraft’s steeply sloping floor. In the heat of the day, and despite the desultory breeze filtering in through every available open window, the Dakota’s fuselage was like an oven. They shared out their supplies of water, knowing that they might have to make it last a long time, and spared conversation to conserve energy. But Dusty was curious about the interpreter.
“She had a slightly antipodean accent, I thought. Wonder who she is?”
“An ex-internee maybe,” said Ken. “Probably not surprising that the new régime’s picked her up now. Good luck to her, especially working for that clown.”
They were interrupted by Freddie, who was at his radio station with headphones over one ear. He was making the third in the regular series of transmissions they’d agreed upon.
“Skip … skip … I’ve got something!”
