“It doesn’t matter anyway, sir. The engine’s finished.” He paused, then went on quietly: “The magneto, sir: the grenade must have gone off just beneath it.”
“Oh, lord, no! The magneto? Perhaps the second engineer —”
“No one could repair it, sir,” McKinnon interrupted patiently. “There’s damn all left to repair.”
“I see.” Nicolson nodded heavily and gazed down at the shattered magneto, his mind dull and heavy with all the appalling implications that smashed magneto carried with it. “There isn’t very much left of it, is there?”
McKinnon shivered. “Somebody’s walking over my grave,” he complained. He shook his head slowly, stared down into the boat even after Nicolson had switched the light off, then touched Nicolson lightly on the arm. “You know something, sir? It’s a long, long row to Darwin.”
Gudrun was her name, she told him, Gudrun Jörgensen Drachmann, the Jörgensen being for her maternal grandfather. She was three parts Danish, twenty-three years old and had been born in Odense on Armistice Day, 1918. Apart from two short stays in Malaya, she had lived in Odense all her life until she had qualified as a nurse and come out to her father’s plantations near Penang. That had been in August, 1939.
Nicolson, lying on his back against the bank of the hollow, clasped hands beneath his head and staring up unseeingly at the dark canopy of clouds, waited for her to go on, waited till she would begin again and hoped she would begin again. What was that quotation that old Willoughby, a hopeless, inveterate bachelor if ever there had lived one, had thrown at him so often in the past? “Her voice was ever soft”—that was it. King Lear. “Her voice was ever soft, gentle and low.” Willoughby’s stock excuse for avoiding the accursed snares—his own words—of holy matrimony: a female—Willoughby could invest that word with a wealth of scorn—with a voice ever soft, gentle and low—he had never found one. But maybe if Willoughby had been sitting where he’d been in the twenty minutes that had elapsed since he’d reported back to Findhorn and then come to see how the young boy was, he might have changed his mind.
Two minutes passed, three and she had said no more. By and by Nicolson stirred and turned towards her.
“You’re a long way from home, Miss Drachmann. Denmark—you liked it?” It was just something to say, but the vehemence of her answer surprised him.
“I loved it.” There was finality in her voice, the tone of someone speaking of something lost beyond recall. Damn the Japanese, damn that waiting submarine, Nicolson thought viciously. He changed the subject abruptly.
“And Malaya? Hardly the same high regard for that, eh?”
“Malaya?” The tone changed, was the vocal accompaniment of an indifferent shrug. “Penang was all right, I suppose. But not Singapore. I—I hated Singapore.” She was suddenly vehement, all indifference gone, and had no sooner shown the depths of her feelings than she had realised what she had done, for voice and subject changed again. She reached out and touched him on the arm. “I would love a cigarette too. Or does Mr. Nicolson disapprove.”
“Mr. Nicolson is sadly lacking in old world courtesy, I’m afraid.” He passed over a packet of cigarettes, struck a match and as she bent to dip her cigarette in the pool of flame he could smell the elusive sandalwood again and the faint fragrance of her hair before she straightened and withdrew into the darkness. He ground out his match into the soil and asked her gently: “Why do you hate Singapore?”
Almost half a minute passed before she replied. “Don’t you think that that might be a very personal question?”
“Very possibly.” He paused a moment, then went on quietly, “What does it matter now?”
She took his meaning at once. “You’re right, of course. Even if it’s only idle curiosity on your part, what does it matter now? It’s funny, but I don’t mind telling you—probably because I can be sure that you wouldn’t waste false sympathy on anyone, and I couldn’t stand that.” She was silent for a few seconds, and the tip of her cigarette burnt brightly in the gloom. “It’s true what I say. I do hate Singapore. I hate it because I have pride, personal pride, because I have self-pity and because I hate not to belong. You wouldn’t know about any of these things, Mr. Nicolson.”
“You know an awful lot about me,” Nicolson murmured mildly. “Please go on.”
“I think you know what I mean,” she said slowly. “I am European, was born in Europe, brought up and educated in Europe, and thought of myself only as a Dane—as did all the Danish people. I was welcome in any house in Odense. I have never been asked to any European’s house in Singapore, Mr. Nicolson.” She tried to keep her voice light. “A drug on the social market, you might say. I wasn’t a nice person to be seen with. It’s not funny when you hear someone say, ’A touch of the tarbrush, old man.’” And say it without bothering to lower their voice, and then everybody looks at you and you never go back there again. I know my mother’s mother was Malay, but she is a wonderful, kind old lady and—”
“Easy, take it easy. I know it must have been rotten. And the British were the worst, weren’t they?”
“Yes, yes they were.” She was hesitant. “Why do you say that?”
“When it comes to empire-building and colonialism we are the world’s best—and the world’s worst. Singapore is the happy hunting ground of the worst, and our worst is something to wonder at. God’s chosen people and with a dual mission in life—to pickle their livers in an impossibly short time and to see to it that those who are not of the chosen remain continually aware of the fact—the sons of Ham to be hewers of wood and drawers of water to the end of their days. Good Christians all, of course, and staunch pillars and attenders of the church—if they can sober up in time on the Sunday morning. They’re not all like that, not even in Singapore: but you just didn’t have the luck to run into any of the others.”
“I didn’t expect to hear you say that.” Her voice was slow, surprised.
“Why not? It’s true.”
“That’s not what I mean. It’s just that I didn’t expect to hear you talking like—oh, well, never mind.” She laughed, self-consciously. “The colour of my skin is not all that important.”
“That’s right. Go on. Give the knife a good twist.” Nicolson ground out his cigarette beneath his heel. His voice was deliberately rough, almost brutal. “It’s damned important to you, but it shouldn’t be. Singapore’s not the world. We like you, and we don’t give two hoots if you’re heliotrope.”
“Your young officer—Mr. Vannier—he gives two hoots,” she murmured.
“Don’t be silly—and try to be fair. He saw that gash and he was shocked—and ever since he’s been ashamed of showing that shock. He’s just very young, that’s all. And the captain thinks you’re the cat’s pyjamas. ‘Translucent amber,’ that’s what he says your skin’s like.” Nicolson tuttutted softly. “Just an elderly Lothario.”
“He is not. He’s just very, very nice and I like him very much.” She added, inconsequentially: “You make him feel old.”
“Nuts!” Nicolson said rudely. “A bullet in the lungs would make anyone feel old.” He shook his head. “Oh, lord, there I go again. Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to snap at you. Daggers away, shall we, Miss Drachmann?”
“Gudrun.” The one word was both his answer and a request, and completely innocent of any hint of coquetry.
“Gudrun? I like it, and it suits you.”
“But you don’t—what is the word—reciprocate?” There was mischief now in the husky voice. “I have heard the captain call you ‘Johnny.’ Nice,” she said consideringly. “In Denmark it is the kind of name we would give to a very little boy. But I think I might manage to become used to it.”
“No doubt,” Nicolson said uncomfortably. “But you see—”
“Oh, but of course!” She was laughing at him, he knew, and he felt still more uncomfortable. “‘Johnny’ in front of the members of your crew—unthinkable! But then, of course, it would be Mr. Nicolson,” she added demurely. “Or perhaps y
ou think ‘sir’ would be better?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Nicolson began, then stopped short and found himself echoing the girl’s barely audible laughter. “Call me anything you like. I’ll probably deserve it.”
He rose to his feet, crossed to the front of the hollow where the Muslim priest was keeping watch, spoke briefly to him then moved down the hill to where Van Effen was keeping watch over the one serviceable lifeboat. He sat there with him for a few minutes, wondering what point there was anyway in guarding the boat, then made his way back up to the hollow. Gudrun Drachmann was still awake, sitting close by the little boy. He sat down quietly beside her.
“There’s no point in sitting up all night,” he said gently. “Peter will be all right. Why don’t you go to sleep?”
“Tell me straight.” Her voice was very low. “How much chance have we got?”
“None.”
“Honest and blunt enough,” she acknowledged. “How long?”
“Noon tomorrow—and that’s a very late estimate. The submarine will almost certainly send a landing party ashore first—or try to. Then they’ll call up help—but probably the planes will be here at first light anyway.”
“Perhaps the men from the submarine will be enough. Perhaps they won’t require to call up help. How many—”
“We’ll cut them to ribbons,” Nicolson said matter-of-factly. “They’ll need help, all right. They’ll get it. Then they’ll get us. If they don’t kill us all by bombing or shelling, they may take you and Lena and Miss Plenderleith prisoner. I hope not.”
“I saw them at Kota Bharu.” She shivered at the memory. “I hope not too. And little Peter?”
“I know. Peter. Just another casualty,” Nicolson said bitterly. “Who cares about a two-year-old kid?” He did, he knew; he was becoming more attached to the youngster than he would ever have admitted to anybody, and one day, had Caroline lived—
“Is there nothing we can do?” The girl’s voice cut through his wandering thoughts.
“I’m afraid not. Just wait, that’s all.”
“But—but couldn’t you go out to the submarine and—and do something?”
“Yes, I know. Cutlasses in teeth, capture it and sail it home in triumph. You’ve been reading the wrong comic books, lady.” Before she could speak, he stretched out and caught her arm. “Cheap and nasty. I’m sorry. But they’ll be just begging for us to do something like that.”
“Couldn’t we sail the boat away without being heard or seen?”
“My dear girl, that was the first thing we thought of. Hopeless. We might get away, but not far. They or the planes would get us at dawn—and then those who weren’t killed would be drowned. Funny, Van Effen was very keen on the idea too. It’s a fast way of committing suicide,” he ended abruptly.
She thought for a few more moments. “But you think it’s possible to leave here without being heard?”
Nicolson smiled. “Persistent young so-and-so, aren’t you? Yes, it’s possible, especially if someone were creating some sort of diversion elsewhere on the island to distract their attention. Why?”
“The only way out is to make the submarine think we’re gone. Couldn’t two or three of you take the boat away—maybe to one of these little islands we saw yesterday—while the rest of us make some kind of diversion.” She was speaking quickly, eagerly now. “When the submarine saw you were gone, it would go away and—”
“And go straight to these little islands—the obvious place to go—see that there was only a few of us, kill us, sink the boat, come back here and finish the rest of you off.”
“Oh!” Her voice was subdued. “I never thought of that.”
“No, but brother Jap would. Look, Miss Drachmann—”
“Gudrun. We’ve stopped fighting, remember?”
“Sorry. Gudrun. Will you stop trying to beat your head against a brick wall? You’ll just give yourself a headache. We’ve thought of everything ourselves, and it’s no good. And if you don’t mind now I’ll try to get some sleep. I have to relieve Van Effen in a little while.”
He was just dropping off when her voice came again. “Johnny?”
“Oh lord,” Nicolson moaned. “Not another flash of inspiration.”
“Well, I’ve just been thinking again and—”
“You’re certainly a trier.” Nicolson heaved a sigh of resignation and sat up. “What is it?”
“It wouldn’t matter if we stayed here as long as the submarine went away, would it?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Answer me please, Johnny.”
“It wouldn’t matter, no. It would be a good thing—and if we could hole up here, unsuspected, for a day or so they’d probably call off the search. From this area, at least. How do you propose to make them sail away, thinking we’re gone? Going to go out there and hypnotise them?”
“That’s not even a little bit funny,” she said calmly. “If dawn came and they saw that our boat was gone—the good one, I mean—they’d think we were gone too, wouldn’t they.”
“Sure they would. Any normal person would.”
“No chance of them being suspicious and searching the island?”
“What the devil are you getting at?”
“Please, Johnny.”
“All right,” he growled. “Sorry again and again and again. No, I don’t think they’d bother to search. What are you after, Gudrun?”
“Make them think we’ve gone,” she said impatiently. “Hide the boat.”
“‘Hide the boat,’ she says! There’s not a place on the shores of this island where we could put it that the Japs wouldn’t find in half-anhour. And we can’t hide it on the island—it’s too heavy to drag up and we’d make such a racket trying that they’d shoot the lot of us, even in the darkness, before we’d moved ten feet. And even if we could, there isn’t a big enough clump of bushes on this blasted rock to hide a decent-sized dinghy, far less a twenty-four foot lifeboat. Sorry and all that, but it’s no go. There’s nowhere you could hide it, either on sea or land, that the Japs couldn’t find it with their eyes shut.”
“These were your suggestions, not mine,” she said tranquilly. “Impossible to hide it on or around the island, and I agree. My suggestion is that you should hide it under the water.”
“What!” Nicolson half sat up, stared at her in the darkness.
“Make some sort of diversion at one end of the island,” she said quickly. “Sail the boat round the other end to that little bay in the north, fill it with stones, pull out the plug or whatever you call it, sink it in pretty deep water and then after the Japs have gone—”
“Of course!” Nicolson’s voice was a slow, considering whisper. “Of course it would work! My God, Gudrun, you’ve got it, you’ve got it!” His voice almost a shout now, he sat up with a jerk, caught the protesting, laughing girl in a bear hug of sheer joy and splendidly renewed hope, scrambled to his feet and ran across to the other side of the hollow. “Captain! Fourth! Bo’sun! Wake up, wake up all of you!”
Luck was with them at last, and it went off without a hitch. There had been some argument about the nature of the diversion—some held that the captain of the submarine, or the man who had taken over since the captain’s death, would be suspicious of a straight forward diversion, but Nicolson insisted that any man stupid enough to send a landing party straight ashore to where the boats had been instead of making a flank attack, was unlikely to be acute enough not to fall for the deception, and his insistence carried the day. Moreover, the wind, which had backed to the north, lent strength to his arguments, and the events proved him right.
Vannier acted as decoy and carried out his part intelligently and with perfect timing. For about ten minutes he moved around the shore of the south-west tip of the island, flashing his hooded torch furtively and at infrequent intervals. He had Nicolson’s night glasses with him, and as soon as he saw the dark shadow of the submarine begin to creep silently forward on her batteries he laid aside the
torch altogether and took shelter behind a boulder. Two minutes later, with the submarine directly abreast of him and not more than a hundred yards off-shore, he stood up, twisted off the release fork of one of number two lifeboat’s smoke floats and hurled it as far out to sea as he could: within thirty seconds the light northerly breeze had carried the dense orange smoke out to the submarine, smoke that swirled chokingly round the men in the conning-tower and made them blind.
Four to five minutes is the normal burning time for a smokefloat, but it was more than enough. Four men and muffled oars had number two lifeboat well round to the northern side of the island a full minute before the canister hissed softly to extinction. The submarine remained where it was, motionless. Nicolson eased the lifeboat quietly alongside a steep shelf in the deep bight to the north, and found Farnholme, Ahmed the priest, Willoughby and Gordon waiting for them, a huge pile of smooth round stones lying ready at their feet.
Willoughby had insisted on removing the aircases—the idea of driving holes into them had wounded his engineer’s soul. It would take time with the limited tools at their disposal, require light for working by, would inevitably cause too much noise—and the submarine commander might at any moment take it into his head to make a quick cruise round the island, lighting his way with flares. But the risk had to be taken.
Quickly the plugs were pulled out of the gar-board strake, the men working at breakneck speed, and in almost complete silence, loading the bottom-boards with the stones passed down from the shelf, carefully avoiding blocking the gushing plug holes. After two minutes Nicolson spoke softly to Farnholme, and the Brigadier went running off up the hill: only seconds later he was firing spaced shots in the direction of the submarine, the flat, explosive crack of the carbine roughly synchronising with and covering the metallic rings from the north side of the island as Nicolson and the others removed the shuttering of the buoyancy tanks and withdrew the yellow metal aircases, but leaving enough of the tanks in place to give the boat a strong positive buoyancy.
South by Java Head Page 19
