by Rory Marron
The Gurkhas straightened and gave Miller textbook salutes that he returned equally smartly. Rai and the others moved off. In seconds they had disappeared.
‘He’s the best we’ve got at shikar,’ Miller said proudly.
Mac frowned. ‘Sir?’
‘It means “the hunt”.’
Behind them the loud swishing of branches, swearing and heavy footfalls announced the approach of Archie Ferguson, who was Mac’s relief.
‘Mac, where the fuck are you?’
‘Password?’ Mac challenged half-heartedly.
‘Och, yer bugger! I’ve forgotten the bloody password!’
After the whispers of Miller and the Gurkhas the words sounded blaring. ‘Over here,’ replied Mac, trying to keep his voice down.
Miller shot him a reproachful look then he, too, was gone.
‘Hurry up, Arch. For God’s sake keep quiet!’ He really needed a cigarette.
Two days later and to his utter dismay, Mac was in midstream on the Chindwin, trying to keep to a steady paddling rhythm with Archie. They were both loaded with kit in a two-man boat and Archie was splashing him with every stroke.
The crossing was going at a snail’s pace and, worse, the morning mist was lifting quickly. Visibility was already way too good for Mac’s liking. Safety, a sloping, sandy bank, was still a good thirty-five yards away. Any second now, he thought grimly, and the ‘Woodpeckers’—the Japanese Nambu heavy machine guns—were sure to open up. Caught in the open, he and Archie would be sitting ducks.
In the stillness, a half-stifled cough from behind them sounded like a shot. Mac jumped. Archie swore softly and began paddling faster.
Mac fixed his gaze on his paddle. Time seemed to stand still until suddenly a helping hand was pulling the boat ashore. He rushed up the bank, bent double behind Archie and sank down panting. Back on the river a line of rubber and canvas boats of various sizes was snaking out of the mist.
Mac’s platoon was on a joint patrol with the Gurkhas, with Miller as the officer in command. He had been introduced to the Seaforths the night before. Miller’s news that a few months previously a British force of three hundred jungle commandos had crossed the Chindwin and moved deep behind enemy lines had surprised, and cheered, them all.
According to Miller, the commandos, called Chindits, had tried to cut the Mandalay railway and disrupt the Japanese lines of communication. It was the first time since the retreat from Burma that any infantry attack had been made on the Japanese. But all was not going well.
‘They are in a bit of a spot,’ Miller had told them. ‘They’ve had some bad run-ins with the Japs and have been split into small groups. Now they are heading home. Some have already made it but the Japs have got their backs up and have sent their 18th Division after those still on the other side of the river. The 18th was at Singapore….’
Miller had let the last word hang for effect. The quick fall of the ‘Fortress City’ had been a huge, embarrassing shock to the British.
‘These Chindits are in a sorry state and need a bit of help,’ Miller had continued. ‘They’ve been short of food and medicines. What’s required is a diversion to allow them to cross the river up stream before the net closes. There are enemy observation posts nearby, so the idea is that we give them something to report in this area. At Tonmakeng there are five hundred Japs. We want to keep them distracted.’
That night Mac had hardly slept a wink. But the reality was worse than he had even imagined. Progress through the dense vegetation on the far bank was painfully slow. Razor-sharp leaves and spines swiped them at every step. Steaming heat and ferocious flies adding to their overall misery. They slid repeatedly in piles of elephant dung or tripped on tree roots, exhausting themselves as they pulled each other up. For Mac the bizat bushes were the worst. Tiny white spores that covered their leaves worked down his shirt and boots to rub and itch. Under his collar his neck was red raw.
Eventually Miller led them inland and they hit upon a narrow trail. As the ground became drier and the jungle thinner they made better time. Yet it wasn’t long before the twelve Scotsmen were in need of a rest and Miller called the first water stop.
Mac sank down next to Archie. Both of them were soaked in perspiration. They unslung their canvas chaggles and took quick, grateful gulps of the brackish, chlorinated water.
‘Jesus,’ groaned the older man, ‘we’ve only been going a couple of hours and I’m knackered. It’s like wading through a hot bath!’
Mac laughed, his own breathing laboured. ‘It’s only been forty-five minutes! You’ll be a right fit bastard at the end of this ramble, Archie.’
‘Quiet back there!’ hissed their sergeant, Munro.
A Gurkha carrying a Thompson sub-machine gun trotted past them. Suddenly he turned and gave Mac the thumbs-up and a wide grin. It was Rai. Mac returned the gesture. The Gurkha sped off, picking his way easily through the slumped Seaforths. Tucked into the belt on Rai’s back Mac saw the heavy, curved kukri dagger that the Gurkhas preferred to the bayonet.
‘How d’you know him?’ Archie asked.
‘He’s the one I told you about. Scared the shite out o’ me!’
‘That I can imagine. Did you see him? Fresh as a fucking daisy!’
‘Good thing they’re on our side, eh?’
‘Aye, laddie. That’s for sure.’
Two hours and six more brief water stops later they came to a small clearing. Miller gathered them round. His instructions, delivered in the now familiar hushed tones, were matter of fact.
‘Absolute silence from here on. There’s a Jap post about three hundred yards to the south. There should be no more than four of them, so we’re going to give them a surprise. In and out before they know what’s hit them.’
Archie and Mac exchanged uneasy glances.
‘Prepare your weapons now,’ said Miller calmly. ‘And fix bayonets.’
To Mac the rasping of rifle bolt-actions and the clicking of ammunition clips sounded raucous. He reached for his bayonet and snapped it into place on his second try. Embarrassed, he looked around. No-one had noticed.
Miller was speaking again. ‘Follow and watch the man in front—ten feet apart. No noise! We’ll take positions to the south-west, shoot them up for a couple of minutes then withdraw. Remember, we only need to rattle their cage!’
Despite his nerves, Mac was impressed. Miller came over like an old Tayside gillie at the start of the salmon season.
They moved off as instructed but just minutes later Miller called a sudden halt in another small clearing. Two silent minutes passed, then five. Mac sat back against a fallen log and strained his ears but all he could hear were birds and the occasional chattering of monkeys. His gaze settled on an inch-wide column of ants marching over one of his boots.
A vaguely familiar bird-call made him start. He looked up to see Rai and another Gurkha scurrying back. They whispered urgently with Miller who then waved the platoon in close.
‘We’re unlucky,’ Miller said almost casually. ‘A small Chindit group is coming directly for us and there’s a Jap patrol right behind them.’
Mac’s throat went dry.
‘They’ll be here any minute,’ continued Miller urgently. ‘We can’t risk hailing them because the Japs are too close. Our chaps are bound to be twitchy, but we daren’t backtrack in case they hear us and delay. We’re going to have to hide and let the Chindits pass. Then we’ll ambush the Japs.’
Miller eyed them confidently. ‘I know some of you have not seen action before. Just remember the drill and you’ll be fine. If the Chindits suspect something and start shooting, for god’s sake don’t fire back. Keep down and shout “British! Don’t shoot!” That should do the trick.’ He glanced at Rai. ‘As soon as the last Jap has come past, Naik Rai will toss a couple of grenades. We’ll reply with more at the other end to box them in. That’s when you open fire. Sweep everything in front of you. Those with Stens, use short bursts. Try to pick your targets but get them all.’
The Seaforths exchanged grim glances. Mac saw that a few had turned pale under their jungle tans. Miller began directing them.
‘MacDonald, you partner Rai. You,’ he pointed to Archie, ‘and Limbau with me. Remember, not a squeak!’ Miller turned and headed back down the trail, positioning men off it at intervals.
Across the clearing Rai beckoned to Mac. He began threading through the bushes parallel to the trail. Bent double, Mac followed as best he could.
Soon they were some three feet in from the edge of the trail beside the opening to the clearing. To Mac’s right, just visible through the low branches, lay Rai. He was totally still, his ear to the ground.
Mac tried desperately to slow his breath, certain he sounded like a running motor. Stinging sweat ran down his forehead into his eyes. Then he saw Rai’s nostrils flare. Seconds later Mac heard slow, laboured footsteps, then panting only yards away. He caught a strong whiff of bowel. Oh God, he thought in consternation, someone’s farted. It’ll give us away!
A pair of badly worn British jungle boots came into view. Their rubber soles had split from the canvas uppers and had been wrapped with a length of tree creeper. Tucked into the boots was a pair of ripped, green trousers. The Chindit’s legs, lacerated with leaf cuts and pocked with oozing sores, were little more than skin and bone. Foliage hid the man’s upper body.
With alarm, Mac noticed the smell was even stronger now. As the Chindit walked on, Mac saw that his buttocks were exposed. Brown stains ran down the backs of his legs and trousers to his boots. Suddenly Mac understood. The man had dysentery! For the sake of speed he had cut out the seat of his pants. Mac wrinkled his nose in distaste. The Chindit was leaving a pungent trail. If Rai had smelt him at twenty yards so would the Japs….
Mac thought of his own recent experience with dysentery. At the time, he could imagine nothing worse than queuing round the clock with fifty other ill men, sharing four latrines and struggling to dig more. But now he could: having the shits and the Japs after you as well. The poor bastards!
Five more Chindits trudged by in silence. They were obviously exhausted by sickness and the long march. Two had cut the seat of their trousers like the first. Another lay on a makeshift bamboo stretcher carried by men who themselves were stretcher-cases.
Mac wanted to jump up and help but he knew he could not. Miller was right. The Chindits would shoot at anything that moved. Silently he urged them on. At last their sounds faded but the natural noises of the forest—the bird-calls, the monkey chatter—did not resume.
The Japanese were under two minutes behind them. Mac’s first indication was an olive-green, sock-like canvas shoe treading noiselessly on the trail directly in front of him. Above the ankle the leg was wrapped to the knee in green puttees. Mac held his breath, watching the scout pass by, stepping with the patience of a hunter who knows his quarry is near. Seconds later the rest of the Japanese patrol came through in silence. Mac counted eight pairs of puttee-wrapped legs.
Twin booms from Rai’s grenades merged into one, shattering the forest stillness.
Mac ducked, his ears ringing. Beside him, Rai was already firing. Vaguely he was aware of shouts and screams as two more blasts sounded and the rest of the platoon opened fire.
A sudden flash of olive-green darted into the bushes to Mac’s left. He stayed prone, watching the Japanese slither quickly through the undergrowth in order to get behind them. Mac swung round anticipating the man’s direction and readied for a shot. His enemy did not oblige. In the clearing the firing had already become sporadic. Mac scanned left and right frantically in the short, eerie silences. His heart began to pound. He’d lost him!
Shots from a Seaforth to Mac’s left resulted in movement. His enemy had been waiting for a target. Quickly, Mac re-aimed at a narrow gap in the foliage a few feet from him. As an olive-green cap filled his sights he pulled the trigger. He saw the head jerk up and then drop. Mac watched but the figure lay still.
‘Cease firing!’ Miller shouted.
Cautiously, Mac moved back out on to the trail. He had to make sure of the Japanese he had shot. Ahead he could see others lying sprawled in the clearing. Miller, Rai, Limbau, Sergeant Munro and Archie were going through their pockets.
A low moaning stopped Mac in his tracks. Directly in front of him, hidden from the others by a tree stump, was a wounded Japanese. Below the knees his legs were bloody stumps. The man was semi-conscious.
Remembering Miller’s instruction about prisoners Mac slowly brought up his rifle. Then the Japanese began to wheeze. Blood frothed in his mouth. Mac lowered his gun. ‘Not my job,’ he muttered. Instead, he placed the dying man’s rifle out of his reach, then worked his way back into the vegetation. He found the body lying face down.
Mac needed to see his enemy’s face. This man, he knew, would have killed him without hesitation. He felt strange, not guilty—it was war after all—but somehow unclean. Other men, politicians and generals, had decided that Alun MacDonald would have to kill. This was the result.
He wrestled with this thought as he rolled the corpse over. Flies buzzed above the matted blood that caked the cropped hair. Brown eyes, now dull, stared sightlessly. Mac guessed he was in his early twenties, like himself. A pair of cracked, round-rimmed glasses lay in the undergrowth. For some reason he put them in the man’s tunic pocket.
The dull boom sent him diving for cover. Even as he moved he sensed that he was not the target. A short burst of machine-gun fire in the clearing was followed by shouts then silence. Suddenly uneasy, Mac headed back, increasing his pace and ignoring the leaves and branches that slashed his legs and arms. He burst into the clearing and almost ran on to the barrel of Limbau’s rifle. He stood awkwardly, realising just how close he had come. Shaking their heads, the other men lowered their weapons. Limbau kept his weapon trained on Mac long enough to make his point.
Only then did Mac see Archie lying on his back, his face covered in blood. His chest had been blown open.
‘Archie!’ He stared in disbelief. Beside his friend lay the mangled body of the Japanese Mac had spared.
Miller was looking away sympathetically.
‘One of ’em wasn’t dead,’ Sergeant Munro explained. ‘He had a charge wedged in his armpit. When Archie went to search him the bastard let it off.’
Mac felt the cold horror of guilt envelop him. Tears ran down his cheeks as he sank to his knees. ‘Oh, Archie I’m sorry! Oh, Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry!’ He began to retch.
Magelang, Central Java, March 1944
‘Isogi!’—Hurry! ‘Isogi!’ The young Japanese officer, a captain in the kenpeitai—Military Police Corps—was in a rage.
Marianne van Dam, kneeling on the polished-teak floor of her well-appointed lounge, rushed to comply, snapping shut the suitcase lid. She rose and stepped back to stand with her husband and teenage son and daughter. Two Japanese soldiers pushed the family roughly out of their way.
Anxiously the girl took her mother’s hand in hers. ‘Mum, what will happen to us?’
‘It’s all right, Kate,’ said Marianne softly and squeezing her hand. ‘Just do as they say.’
Other soldiers began rummaging through cupboards and upending drawers. One of them found the drinks cabinet and called to his captain. The bottles were taken outside.
Marianne tensed as she saw her sixteen-year-old son glaring balefully at the soldiers. ‘Kees!’ Marianne hissed. ‘Stop it!’ Sullenly the boy obeyed, glancing at his father.
Pym van Dam’s face was taut as he watched the hobnailed boots gouge the floor. Marianne slipped her arm inside his. He smiled at her reassuringly.
It had been two years since the Japanese had invaded and conquered the Netherlands East Indies in just nine days. Over the subsequent months most of the Dutch colon
ists had been interned. On Java, the skills of a few score specialists like irrigation engineer Pym van Dam had still been needed. By agreeing to co-operate with the invaders they had kept their families out of squalid, overcrowded camps.
Pym had worked conscientiously on the vast agricultural estates, maintaining the water supply for the vital rice crops that helped feed millions. He had also trained local staff. That morning he had been told his services were no longer required. He and his family had been given thirty-minutes’ notice to pack one suitcase each. Twenty minutes later the Japanese had come.
‘Isogi!’ The captain pointed to the door.
Slowly the van Dams picked up their suitcases. For the last time, Marianne’s gaze swept over the furniture, rugs, books and ornaments they were leaving behind. Most distressing to her were the empty photograph frames left askew on the mantelpiece.
Pym led his family out of the room in a dispirited single file. As Kate passed the sideboard her hand darted out and she grabbed a small, red, cut-glass tulip.
Outside, a captured Dutch army lorry was waiting for them. In the back, three other family groups sat in grim silence on an assortment of cases and mattresses. Marianne stopped, she had not thought about mattresses. A Japanese soldier shoved her forward. It was too late.
Some yards away stood a Javanese couple and five children. Their few belongings—rattan chairs, pots and pans and rugs—were stacked on a bullock cart. Tethered to the back of the cart was a goat. Pym stared disdainfully at the former assistant who had taken his job and who was now taking his house.
Marianne stifled a sob. ‘Oh, Pym, our lovely home….’
Her husband put his arm around her shoulders. His voice shook with anger. ‘We’ll get it back. I promise.’
Nijmegen, The Netherlands, October 1944
In the half-lit cellar, the silence between the barrages from the German 88mm guns was almost ghostly. Voices were hushed, as if savouring the quiet. Meg Graham felt she could be in a church…or a crypt.
