Storm at Sunset

by Hall, Ian

  Despite the heat there was a general rush to the front.

  “It’s ‘O for Oboe’, skip. He’s been sent to check up on us. He’s about five minutes out.”

  Ken thought for a moment. He didn’t want to take the risk of a low-flying Dak upsetting the goons outside.

  “Tell him to hold off.”

  Freddie passed on the message. “Okay, he’s got that.”

  Ken gestured at his WOp. “Let me have the phones.” It would be easier to talk directly.

  Freddie pulled the headset off and passed it over.

  “ ‘O for Oboe’, this is ‘A for Able’. It’s Ken Ticehurst speaking. Are you ready for me to pass the gist of the situation?”

  A tinny voice through the ether told Ken to proceed, and he spent the next couple of minutes explaining the situation as he saw it, ending by emphasising that their batteries, food, water and ability to communicate were all limited.

  After arranging between the two of them that Ken’s crew would come back on the air in two hours for a further radio update, a brief, “Keep your chins up, we’ll have you out in a jiffy – over and out,” terminated the exchange.

  ****

  The crewmembers retired to their former resting positions, cheered by the knowledge that they were no longer alone in dealing with their predicament. But they had as yet no idea of where things would go from there. The sun was well past its highest point, and a night landing at this remote strip was out of the question. Perhaps they were being over-optimistic in hoping for a resolution of their problem in such rapid order. But certainly, if there was to be any intention of flying in somebody more senior today to negotiate, time was running out. All of them were well aware that they would more likely than not have to spend the night there.

  As they settled uneasily, the demons that lay not far below the surface in all of them began to stir. They had no substantive reason to believe that the soldiers surrounding them were connected in any way to the ‘Black Buffalos’, but the spectre of Bekasi still lurked in all their minds. Although there had been a general easing of tension on the squadron since that awful event, emotions were still raw. Try as they might to put the unwanted thoughts away, it was easy to see their tin prison as a potential coffin. Their hearts had been in their mouths since the soldiers had appeared and, despite the heat, a couple of crewmembers shivered uncomfortably.

  Ken sensed the air of unease in the cabin, its root cause easy to discern. The virulent shadow of Bekasi was never far away from any of their minds, but he had no intention of risking upsetting fragile morale even further by overtly raising he subject.

  “No need to fret I don’t think, chaps. We know they’ve got things in hand. The old man has plenty of time to come up with a plan, and I’ve no doubt that moves are under way even now. He looked at his watch. What was the time we’d set for the next radio watch, Freddie?”

  “Four o’clock, skip. Forty minutes time.”

  “Good-oh. We can relax until then.” Ken settled down again against his chosen flour sack, knowing that his feeble attempt at lightness would have fallen far short of calming their fears. With a wry smile he acknowledged that, despite his words, he was not at all certain that he himself felt at all reassured. He closed his eyes on it; there was nothing much more he could do for now, and no point in worrying unnecessarily.

  In their various ways they all tried to put unwelcome thoughts to one side. Dusty’s mind turned to his classroom within the dreaming spires of his old public school. Chalk dust was swirling in the beams of sunlight streaming in through the cloisters, and the mellow sound of leather on willow came from the sports field as the First XI took on the Old Boys. Abruptly the image faded as he was snatched back to the realisation that he might not ever see that scene again – that they might not even get out of this god-forsaken Javanese airstrip. He rechecked his gun for the umpteenth time and, with an effort of will, pushed these unsavoury thoughts to the back of his mind. He promised himself that he’d resume his pleasant reverie once they were safely en route.

  ****

  What seemed like only three or four restless minutes later, Ken’s temporary and self-imposed calm was disturbed by Arthur Brownlow scrambling up and moving over to one of the windows. Activity outside had alerted him, in the form of the high-pitched whine of a vehicle approaching at speed. It screeched to a halt, its tyres scrabbling for grip against the scrubby road surface. By now all the crewmembers were alert and watching. The atmosphere had instantly intensified.

  “It’s the Jeep, skip,” exclaimed Arthur, “with an empty truck behind.”

  Ken glanced at his watch. “A quarter to four. Not time yet for our check-in, but whatever happens we mustn’t miss that.” He moved across towards a window, keeping down as best he could. As far as he could see, the Jeep contained only the driver and the woman, and a feeling of unease flashed momentarily across his mind regarding the purpose of the empty lorry.

  “No sign of El Generalissimo,” murmured Dusty. “I wonder what gives?”

  The interpreter stood up and turned towards them. “I must speak with your captain.”

  “I am listening,” bellowed Ken.

  “You must come out. You will be quite safe.”

  Bernie peered over the cockpit nose. “The soldiers are still in exactly the same positions. They don’t look particularly threatening.”

  “That’s fine for you to say.” It was Bert. “You don’t have to go out there!”

  “It’s all right,” responded Ken. “Somehow, I sense there’s a change in the atmosphere.”

  His pulse rate told him that he was, in fact, far from certain that there wasn’t going to be a problem. But he knew he had no alternative.

  “Same routine as before, everyone. Cover me as best you can.”

  Brownlow once again carefully opened the door, and the skipper stepped down and moved slowly towards the Jeep. Despite the thumping in his chest he struggled to maintain an appearance of calm. Apart from his moving figure, everything else in the scene remained still and quiet.

  “You must go, now.” The woman apparently had no words to waste.

  Ken looked at her, seeking clarification. “Go?”

  “Go!” She gestured impatiently towards the sky. “Fly! My commander says you must go.”

  Turning slightly, she gave a flick of her hand. The squad of soldiers rose as one from the grass, ran to the lorry, and jumped aboard.

  “You very lucky,” she said. “My commander very powerful man.” And with that she sat down.

  The tension drained out of the situation, and Ken now found himself taking in the woman’s features. She was older than she had appeared from a distance – or perhaps it was merely a life in the sun that had caused the lines visible on her face under the make-up. She certainly had a kind of presence, though.

  “Thank you,” he said, moving as if to shake her hand. But if she recognised the gesture, she ignored it. Indeed she appeared impatient, and perhaps irritated by his gaze.

  “Go now!” she barked, and added a word to the Jeep’s driver. He cranked it into life and sped around, parking on the edge of the apron beside the truck. From there the entire force sat and observed the Dak expectantly.

  Ken took a last look round. He had no idea what had been going on behind the scenes. He guessed that money – or the promise of it – might have changed the Indonesian leader’s mind. But that was of no concern of his. Their job was to get out of this hell hole while the going was good. He turned and climbed the aircraft steps.

  “C’mon chaps. To your stations and let’s get this kite airborne. Are the batteries going to do the trick, Arthur?”

  “Should do, skip. There’s only one way to find out.”

  “The internees? The cargo?” It was Dusty.

  “That can wait for tomorrow. Provided we can get this crate going we’re going to scarper. Ready everyone?”

  Arthur was already outside, turning the propellers to draw fuel up the lines.

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bsp; Ken switched on the booster pumps, flicked the primer switch a couple of times, set the ignition switches on and energised the starter for the first engine.

  Their hearts sank immediately as the tired batteries attempted to wind the flywheel up to speed. The rotation was far too weak; they could tell it wasn’t going to happen. There just wasn’t enough juice in the batteries. Ken briefly considered attempting to mesh the starter with what revs he’d got, but immediately abandoned the idea. It wouldn’t work, he knew, and he’d rather preserve what little electrics he had left for the coil, so that the hand crank they were now committed to would have the benefit of as meaty a spark as possible. He couldn’t risk, either, their being left with no power for the radios, and there was nothing for it but to shut off the starter sequence.

  “Bugger it. So it’s a hand-start then.” He gestured through the flight deck side screen to Brownlow, who nodded.

  They all knew what an iffy business that would be, especially under the eyes and itchy trigger fingers of the watching Indonesians, and they didn’t relish the prospect. But there was nothing for it, and Freddie was already man-handling a ladder and a set of trestles out of the cabin door and down to the engine fitter. In a trice the two men had the improvised arrangement set up and had inserted the winding handle into its socket in the engine cowling, just behind the prop.

  The massive internal spring, which would ultimately be let loose to do its work on the crankshaft, would need up to 100 or so turns to give it sufficient tension, and they’d have to share the task. Arthur took the first stint, while Freddie steadied the rickety trestle. Grunting with each rotation as he leaned against the handle, the engine fitter was in a lather of sweat before a couple of minutes had gone by.

  “Need a rest, mate?” Freddie was ready to take a turn. He had been scanning the watching soldiers apprehensively but the faces he could see showed no particular emotion, merely gazing impassively back at him. He had no doubt, though, that they would be enjoying the discomfiture of the British crew. “Come on, I’ll take a turn now.”

  Arthur redoubled his efforts, completing a further half dozen turns before reluctantly giving way to the WOp. “There you are, me boy,” he gasped. “I reckon we’re about half way there.”

  The two men swapped places, Freddie bending to the task and Arthur taking station at the foot of the makeshift platform. The fitter’s attention drifted; an incongruous vision of himself as a small boy came to him, back in his parents’ front room, winding the clockwork mechanism of his model train. It was a picture of a comfortable childhood. Of a life secure in the love of his family. Back in the days before this nightmare had unfolded.

  The heaving breath of the WOp snapped Brownlow back to reality. His sweat-soaked overall was itching and he scratched a couple of raw patches. He was no longer a boy, and was in a dire predicament. He glanced again at the area from whence he knew many hostile eyes were watching, seeing once again a track leading down from a cursed village to a river bank. He licked his cracked, salty lips; it crossed his mind that he could be dead within a few minutes.

  “… 98 … 99 … 100 …” Freddie stopped, gasping, and withdrew the handle. “There – if that doesn’t do it, nothing will.”

  He jumped down and the two of them pulled away the trestle. Safely away from the arc of the propeller, Arthur gave a thumbs-up to the skipper on the flight deck. Ken returned the signal, rechecked the switch positions, and released the catch. They held their collective breath as the prop spun. It seemed to be rotating all too slowly.

  Nothing. But wait! On the spring’s dying turn the big piston engine caught – coughing and spluttering unconvincingly a couple of times before bursting reluctantly into life amidst clouds of smoke.

  There was a ragged cheer – more of relief than elation – from the crewmembers. And with the first engine’s electrical generator now on line, the second started like a dream. The two airmen heaved the trestle aboard, jumped in after it and slammed the door shut behind them.

  Wasting no time, Ken swung the aircraft away towards the downwind end of the strip and turned on to a take-off heading.

  “No-one’s decided at the last minute that they’d like to stay, then?”

  “No!” Roars from the back left him in no doubt.

  “Get on with it for God’s sake!” Even Dusty had had enough.

  With a grin, Ken shoved RPM and throttles to maximum. “Just thought I’d ask, chaps! Here we go then!”

  The tail came up quickly, and as the wheels broke from the ground a collective sigh of relief filled the cabin. At the same moment, Freddie’s headphones crackled as their agreed four o’clock contact came on the air.

  He had only to make the one, brief response: “We’re on our way. Over and out!”

  A bare few moments later they were at cruising altitude for the short hop to Kemajoran. As soon as the undercarriage had come up, tension had released and a huge outpouring of chatter had broken out. Bernie turned round from his co-pilot duties, one arm sprawled across the back of his seat, speculating with Dusty on the nature of the negotiations which had gone towards getting them out of there. But at that moment it couldn’t have mattered less. They were out of the trap, and they laughed out loud.

  Somehow, though, Ken didn’t feel like joining in the general euphoria. His mind wandered as he automatically made the necessary small adjustments to keep the Dak on track. He knew how close the spectre of Bekasi had come to all of them during those uncomfortable hours at Solo, and he recognised his friends’ laughter as a manifestation of relief. But the image of red, white and blue roundels kept returning, bringing with it anger at their failure to recognise that something so simple could have brought them so close to disaster.

  “I’m not flying this bugger again until they’ve sorted out the problem,” he told himself. He knew that, with the difficulty of communicating the new arrangement to parties who might come in contact with the Dak over the coming weeks – forces dispersed over many thousands of square miles of jungle – the apparently straightforward message that RAF aircraft would gradually revert to peace-time colours would be well-nigh impossible to disseminate thoroughly. The seemingly innocuous reversion to peacetime livery had completely failed to take account of the fact that they were operating, to all intents, in a war zone.

  “Dammit, we’ve been thoroughly lulled into a false sense of security.” His thoughts went on. “It would have taken nothing for that little dictator’s switch to have been tripped. We could have found ourselves in a very sticky situation with no way out. Just like those poor buggers at Bekasi.”

  And, as he brought the aircraft round the final approach and planted it neatly on the welcoming runway at Kemajoran, his thoughts found an echo in all of them. It was a full year after Japan had been defeated and, by all rights, they should be at home among friends and families. And here they were, caught up in somebody else’s war. As the crew disembarked, each one made his own personal gesture of thanks.

  CHAPTER 25

  Notwithstanding this latest hiccup, the signs of reducing tension generally continued. Nelli had engineered herself a transfer and now had a new job manning the NAAFI wagon at Kemajoran. Freddie was in heaven.

  Now he was enjoying a June afternoon off, strolling around the perimeter track arm in arm with his girl. He was taking the opportunity to fill in some of the considerable gaps in his knowledge of the recent history of the Netherlands East Indies.

  “So your family were in commerce here, and the war had left you all virtually untouched until 1942. How was that?”

  “Well, not quite. We were well aware that Nederland had been overrun. Most of us had friends and relatives there, and we followed events in Europe very closely. Of course trade with our mother country came to a virtual standstill. That was what had kept our family going pre-war, and many of my parents’ friends were in trade too. So that had a big effect. For a while other markets opened up, so we continued as best we could. But from mid-1941 onwards the Japs began to
cause trouble amongst the various territories of the Netherlands East Indies. They were after oil, of course – and rubber. They lacked those raw materials in their own land and they were increasingly determined to commandeer ours.” She paused, her thoughts far away. “And then there was Pearl Harbor.”

  “The Japanese attack that brought the Americans into the war?”

  “Yes, and more importantly for us it led the Japs to round us up in Java. It was a terrible time. Families were separated from each other. There was killing. And of course we finished up in internment camps.”

  “So that was 1941 going into ‘42. And you had no news of your father from that time?”

  “No.” She paused. “Nothing. We heard that many in the group he was with were killed, and I more or less assumed that he was among those.”

  They found a grassy patch beside the track and sat, savouring the sunshine. For a while there was silence, save for the crickets and the ever-present distant rumble of engines across the airbase. Freddie stole a glance at her face, registering that she was far away. There was a deep sadness in her eyes. He would have liked to have found out more, but was reluctant to intrude on a pain that seemed for the time being too personal to share. He took her hand in his, but remained quiet. If she wanted to talk, she knew that he was there for her.

  After a while he felt an increased pressure on his hand as she shifted slightly. She seemed to be summoning up the courage to continue her story.

  “It was dreadful time, Freddie. Can you imagine how it was in women-only prison camp? Can you think how it is to have soldiers force themselves into your lives – to have to submit to a foreign power? That happened to my relatives back in Nederland. It happened to me here in Java.”

  For a moment Freddie wondered whether he was being given an insight into parallel events which might have led up to Bekasi. Had the Indonesians, he wondered, felt something of the same about having the Dutch colonise their country?

  And might there also have been similarities with British colonies over the past couple of centuries? He had been brought up and educated to regard colonial rule as a benign influence, bringing civilisation to undeveloped countries. Opening up industry. Bringing education, prosperity and employment. But perhaps those who had been colonised hadn’t perceived it in quite the same light. Maybe they’d seen the removal of their lands’ natural resources as a form of theft. Certainly they must have resented being subjugated by a foreign power. He had never previously considered just how complex was the balance between the advantages and disadvantages of imperialism. And just for a fleeting moment he saw their seemingly straightforward humanitarian mission with new eyes, set as it was against the swirling mists of its political background.