Storm at Sunset

by Hall, Ian

  But feeling Nelli’s trusting little hand still grasping his, still seeking reassurance and release, he pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind. They were too profound just now, and irrelevant to the moment. For now, his girl needed comfort.

  “No, my darling, I can’t imagine how it must have been. We British suffered and died during the war, right enough, both those on active service and those at home being bombed. Many homes were wrecked. Many of my countrymen became prisoners of war, and the rest of us can only imagine how they must have suffered. British in Malaya and Singapore were rounded up, just as you Dutch were here. But I suppose the most important thing is that our homeland wasn’t invaded. No, Nelli, I can’t really begin to understand.”

  Freddie sensed that she wanted to say more but needed a cue. He offered her a new opening.

  “What did you do all day in the camp? Were you made to work?”

  “Oh yes. We did all the site maintenance and housekeeping. We lacked food, but what little there was we cooked for ourselves. We cleaned. We built additional huts when we could – there was terrible overcrowding you know.” She spread her hands before him.

  “My hands. They were constantly calloused. My nails were always broken.”

  Looking at the delicate articles now on display, Freddie found that hard to believe. He stroked her fingers.

  She continued. “We ran schools for the children who were with us. We set up clinics for the sick as best we could. Illness, injuries, there were plenty of those. And deaths – there were graves to be dug …” She fell silent again.

  Freddie guessed where her thoughts had wandered, but remained uncertain whether she wanted to proceed further along what must be a painful track. Eventually he ventured to offer her the prompt she needed.

  “And the guards. Were the Japanese guards … cruel?”

  She was still for endless moments. He felt a slight convulsion within her and wondered whether he had gone too far. At last she resumed her tale.

  “They were individuals. All different. There were some bullies. But most were not too bad.”

  Freddie stroked her hand.

  “There were some beatings. I remember one day I was standing near the wire. I saw a cigarette end on the ground, still with some tobacco left in it. I picked it up, but a guard saw me. He was a very bad man. He shouted at me and I threw the cigarette down. But he smashed his rifle butt into my face. Like this …” And she gestured with two hands in a swinging motion. She touched the side of her nose, and now that she pointed it out Freddie could see a faded scar.

  “It must have been very painful.”

  “My face was very cut and bruised. It took a long time to heal.”

  She fell silent.

  “What about the children?”

  “The guards were always kind to the children. I suppose they all thought about their own families back home, and I also believe there is something in the Japanese character or culture that tells them they must respect children.”

  Freddie nodded.

  She continued. “I was a child in the camp, you know. I was only 14 when we were interned. But I was growing up. Of course the Japs noticed that …”

  “They didn’t …?” He came to an awkward halt.

  “No Freddie, I know what you are asking. No, they didn’t. But it wasn’t easy for me.”

  He tried not to think too much about quite how difficult the situation might have been. And he was relieved when Nelli headed off on a different tack.

  “Towards the end of our time the Japs suffered almost as much as we did. They were just as short of food as we were. And I suppose that just as we were beginning to hear good rumours about the end of the war, so they were hearing bad news.”

  “Was there any … I mean did they treat you any worse when they knew the game was up?”

  “No, we did hear stories afterwards that prisoners in other camps might have been badly treated at that time. Killed, even, when the camps were about to be liberated. But I’ve never had any real information about that and certainly we weren’t treated worse. Not by the Japanese, that is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when the war was ended the locals took over looking after us. And although they were supposed to be Javanese civilians, it seemed to us that our new guards were from some kind of Indonesian freedom organisations. They were very aggressive towards us, and if anything our conditions got worse after the war ended. We were truly scared during that time, until the British came and released us.”

  Once again Freddie felt an insight into the complications of colonisation and the struggle for liberation, but his mind couldn’t cope with the complexities.

  A long silence followed, during which Freddie slipped an arm around her shoulders. She snuggled up, and he felt very protective. Eventually, registering that the sun was getting lower in the sky, he stirred reluctantly. But she hadn’t finished.

  “Thank you for listening. I haven’t been able to talk about these things for a very long time.”

  He squeezed her hand and leant over, dabbing the moist corners of her eyes with the same dirty old handkerchief.

  She smiled, recognising the nasty article. “You are a good man, Freddie.”

  “That’s a strange thing to say. You sound like your father talking.”

  “My father told me when I saw him last week that you were a good man. He said that when you ask me to marry you I should say yes.”

  The WOp spluttered.

  “Did you tell him, Freddie, that you want to marry me?”

  He gulped. “No!”

  “No? You don’t want to marry me?”

  “I didn’t mean that!” He knew he was in a mess here. “No. What I should have said is that I don’t think I told him so. I certainly don’t remember saying anything like that.”

  Nelli looked crestfallen. He reached for her hand, immediately aware that he’d not given the answer she’d hoped to hear.

  “It’s just that we had only just met. He was a frail, newly freed prisoner. I was meeting him for the first time, bringing news of a daughter he had thought he had lost. We simply weren’t talking about that sort of thing.”

  She brightened slightly. He hadn’t envisaged anything quite like this so early in their relationship. But he wondered now whether he should seize the moment and follow the path that was opening up.

  “It’s not that I wouldn’t have told him so if the conversation had gone in that direction, though.”

  Her grip on his hand tightened a little. He thought fast. There was no going back from here, he knew. He swallowed. Ah well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

  “So what would you say, Nelli, if I did do what your father suggested?”

  “I would say yes, Freddie.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Well I’m asking you. Will you marry me, Nelli?”

  “Yes. Oh yes. Of course I will, you silly boy!”

  As they walked home in the dusk, happily holding hands, he was vaguely conscious that he had been ambushed. He’d been totally outmanoeuvred by this wisp of a girl. For one so young, he marvelled that she knew all the tricks. Especially considering that she’d spent so much of her life in a prison camp. Women must have that ability built in from birth, he reckoned. Yes, he told himself again. He’d been thoroughly given the runaround. But it had been lovely.

  CHAPTER 26

  “Now come on, my girl!” The skipper was enjoying himself. “Don’t just tickle the stick – handle it firmly!”

  Shrieks and giggles filled the cockpit of ‘A for Able’ as Peggy Wilding tried out its handling from the second pilot’s seat. Bernie had been unceremoniously relegated to a supporting role as his undeniably more glamorous replacement had clambered behind the controls, and Ken was watching carefully as the aircraft weaved awkwardly through the sky in response to the actress’s hesitant efforts.

  The RAF hierarchy had agreed with Ken’s assessment of the roundel situation,
and for the time being until things could be sorted out the shiny aircraft was confined to duties outside the island of Java. While the Solo runs continued with the usual dirty old Daks bringing out hundreds more released internees, the refurbished ‘Able’ would be employed mainly on the Singapore run. But first, as Macnamara had originally envisaged, it was now engaged on VIP duties.

  Peggy screamed with laughter again, and grasping the control yoke with renewed purpose she managed to fly the Dakota through a more or less balanced turn before reversing onto track. “You see, captain – I’m a quick learner. Teach me the other tricks you know!” She flashed him a cheeky smile.

  “That won’t take long!” Freddie, never far from the action, was leaning over the back of Peggy’s seat.

  The ENSA concert party was, as promised, visiting the area, and the squadron had been tasked with ferrying them around the various locations in the East Indies where they’d be performing. ENSA, the ‘Entertainments National Service Association’, was an umbrella organisation under which professional entertainers, both famous and not so well-known, would make their contribution to the combat effort by touring and performing for very little remuneration, raising the spirits of the troops in the field. Their efforts were always well appreciated by their audiences worldwide, notwithstanding good-natured banter having it that ENSA actually stood for ‘every night something awful’. Stars of stage and screen had performed in desert and jungle, each feeling humbled by the reception they’d received from the troops. Vera Lynn herself, the Forces’ Sweetheart, having entertained 31 Squadron earlier in the jungles of north-east India, forever held a position in the hearts of squadron members who’d been there. And for many a Thirty-One’r, the autographed photograph of her posing amongst their motley group of airmen would always remain the prize item among his small pile of wartime souvenirs.

  Although visits from these professional concert parties were few and far between, the boys were also well used to improvising their own entertainment, and the most incongruous of tropical venues had hosted remarkable amateur performances throughout the squadron’s journeys across India, Burma and the East Indies. Like most wartime units, they could boast a huge variety of talent amongst their conscripted number. Airmen, miraculously transformed into singers, ventriloquists, magicians and musicians, would strut jungle stages set up with packing cases and painted scenery cut from hessian and canvas. More elaborate props would sometimes be bartered from local traders, with flea-ridden sofas and armchairs mysteriously materialising on donkey carts. Spotlights would come from cannibalised Dakota landing lights, curtains from parachutes, and loudspeakers from the wireless section stores. Beer and gin rations would be saved for the event, while mocking the officers would be the order of the night. Choruses of ‘why are we waiting?’ would erupt during the regular hitches in the proceedings. Drag queens would be chased into the bushes with cries of ‘gettem orf!’ The master of ceremonies would lead his audience in sing-songs, starting them off with popular numbers before the playlist moved on to the suggestive and ribald category – inevitably degenerating into the downright filthy. As always, the climax would be the ever-popular ‘There’s a troop-ship leaving Bombay’, and as the ragged crews happily dispersed to their billets their thoughts would turn to home.

  But the professional performances were always the best, and the wing commander knew that this one would be coming at just the right time. Although the pace and pressure of the relief work had served to ensure that the word ‘Bekasi’ was no longer heard around the squadron with any regularity, he knew that the aftermath of the atrocity was never far beneath the surface of the men’s consciousness. Thus anything that served to assist in his efforts to maintain morale was welcome, and an ENSA show would fall very much into that category.

  Now Ken and his crew were transporting the small company around a couple of other venues before delivering them to Java for the final performances of their tour. They had picked them up that morning from Palembang in Sumatra and were en route via Padang, further up the island, to Medan, where the performers would be putting on a show that evening.

  The star of the troupe, the celebrated comedian Tommy Trinder, was comfortably settled down in the cabin with a newspaper, having declined an invitation to visit the flight deck. He had been a big name on stage and screen before the war, and always enjoyed his tours entertaining the troops. Dan Draper and musician Hastings Mann were amongst the small cast, as were the two or three girls the crew were still busy ‘educating’ up front. In this important work, the skipper was somewhat hindered by a string of interruptions from the irrepressible Freddie, but Peggy was nevertheless giving back to the airmen as good as she got. By the time they were getting close to their first landing point, Ken had decided to allow the actress to remain in the co-pilot’s seat for the landing.

  “Freddie, away with you and get back to your valves and Morse keys. And would you ask Bernie to come up front?”

  “Sure thing, skipper,” grinned Freddie. “Your wish is my command.” And he trotted off on his errand.

  A moment later the co-pilot appeared.

  “Bernie, Peggy is now fully trained and I’ve invited her to remain in your seat for the landing. Shouldn’t be a problem I don’t think. But just in case I need some help I’d like you to remain handy. Happy with that?”

  “Of course, skip.” And, rewarded by a dazzling smile from the vision in his accustomed seat, Bernie happily draped himself over the back of the seat.

  The landing went off smoothly, and after taking on some cargo the crew were soon established on the leg across Sumatra to Medan. On this sector, dancer Diana Glover had, with a kiss for Ken, won the right to sit in the co-pilot’s position, and had draped her shapely body behind the control wheel. The flight passed in the same pleasant and relaxed way as the first one, and before long they were approaching to land.

  That evening the crewmen were able to join the audience at the local army garrison for the show, and were rewarded by a number of Trinder’s famed ad-libs relating to the events of the flight.

  “Now, you know what, boys? Peggy was in the co-pilot position for landing. She told me afterwards that she’d done it many times before, but never in the co-pilot position.”

  His delighted audience responded with cat-calls and wolf-whistles.

  “Now steady on, fellers, steady on.” The comedian strutted the stage, huge chin jutting, big ears supporting his trademark trilby hat, milking the story. “I’m talking about the landing. She’d done many landings before. But none from the co-pilot’s position. What did you think I meant, you naughty lads?”

  Roars again. This was exactly the mixture of cheeky material that appealed to an audience of active servicemen, and Trinder was an expert. Deep in the most inhospitable jungle locations, he had always held them in the palm of his hand.

  Onwards the next morning for the final leg of the cast’s tour, back to Thirty-One’s base ready for the evening’s performance at Kemajorang. It was Jock Patterson’s birthday and he was invited onto the stage. Thoroughly rehabilitated following his flight, he’d emerged a humbler man. Indeed it would not be stretching a point to say that he’d even become popular amongst his peers. At any event when he got a kiss from Joy Haden and had his programme autographed by the whole cast, there were genuine cheers – and a round of applause as he resumed his seat and downed the proffered pint.

  Once again the ENSA party made it an evening to remember for the boys in Java, and the star of the show led the cast in applauding the audience as they left the stage for the final time: “If it’s laughter you’re after, Trinder’s the name! You lucky people!” He waved over his shoulder, and as he disappeared into the wings the makeshift open-air auditorium buzzed and echoed to the performance.

  CHAPTER 27

  Nelli had met most of the crews at Bandoeng, and later around her NAAFI wagon at Kemajorang. But now she was en route with Freddie’s compatriots to be introduced to the social club. As the little group approache
d, a scruffy-looking mongrel wagged its tail at them from the side of the road, ever hopeful of scraps.

  Freddie clicked his tongue at it. “Here, boy – good dog.” And it bounded across.

  “You like animals, Freddie?” Nelli was watching the performance.

  “Certainly I do,” responded Freddie, scratching the mutt behind the ears. “Most of the sections have got pets around here. Mascots, sort of. See that?” he exclaimed. “It understands English!”

  Nelli laughed. “No doubt it’s as grateful to be liberated by you as we poor internees are!”

  Dusty’s acute senses twitched at the touch of sarcasm. Or maybe she hadn’t meant it to come out that way. Even though her English was very good, it wasn’t after all her native language, and it was sometimes difficult for her to choose the absolutely appropriate nuance. Anyway, Dusty thought, it might be wise to deflect the course of the conversation.

  “Where did you learn your English, Nelli? It’s top rate.”

  “At school here of course. English was a regular subject right from the start.”

  “So your mother tongue is Dutch.”

  “Yes. Well yes and no. Being born here, I have two native languages. Dutch and Malay – which is what the local people speak.”

  “Malay? I had no idea that Malay was used here. How fascinating.”