In the Mouth of the Tiger

by Lynette Silver

  I went out and sat under the loggia until I heard the Marvelette returning. By then it was dawn, a particularly beautiful dawn, I remember, the sky streaked with carnival colours – golds and reds and purples, faithfully reflected in the pearl-grey sea. It was almost as if heaven was taunting me in my misery by showing me just how beautiful the world could be.

  ‘How did he take it?’ I asked when Denis joined me, but he just squeezed my hand, staring out to sea. We never saw Alec again. He refused to come to the simple funeral we arranged on his behalf, remaining at his post. He was captured in the first hours of the Japanese invasion of Singapore Island and died in Japanese hands.

  So the Deans, our closest, dearest friends, were just blinked out of existence, almost between one breath and the next.

  On the last day of January 1942, troops of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders retreated across the causeway linking Singapore and the mainland. They were the rearguard of the British forces in Malaya. Minutes later Indian sappers blasted a crater in the causeway in what would prove to be an abortive attempt to cut the island off from the advancing Japanese. The Battle for Malaya was over, and the Battle for Singapore had begun.

  Singapore is a small island, barely twenty-five miles by twelve, so the battle was an extraordinarily intimate affair. Just how intimate I was to discover on the first night of the siege. A large reinforcement convoy was due in that night and Denis had left early for his ship, his job being to help shepherd the convoy through the minefields guarding Keppel Harbour. The fireworks started about midnight, with a bombing raid setting fire to several of the arriving vessels. The waters off Whitelawns became almost as bright as day, illuminated by burning ships, searchlights crisscrossing the sky, and the brilliance of parachute flares. The noise and the spectacle brought many on Singapore’s south coast out of bed and down to the beach. At Whitelawns I sat in the loggia, half petrified, half fascinated by the terrible display. At about two o’clock a tanker went up in a ball of fire and began drifting towards Sultan Shoal. I knew Denis would be there as his patrol area was from Horsburgh Light to the Shoals. Sure enough, I glimpsed a shape, tiny but distinct in the light of the conflagration, a fleck of grey racing towards the stricken vessel with its Oerlikon sending a line of tracer up towards the invisible bombers. And then abruptly the little vessel was gone, replaced by a vivid flare of light as it took a direct hit.

  I was certain it was HDML 24, and commended Denis’s life to God, kneeling in the inky shadow of the loggia with the scent of frangipani in my nostrils and my hands clasped so tightly together that the nail marks were still there the next morning. I thought Denis must surely be dead, and accepting the thought gave me a curious feeling of relief. I started talking to him in my mind. ‘We had a terrific time, didn’t we?’ I asked. ‘Would you change anything, darling? I wouldn’t. Not a single thing.’

  When he woke me next morning, smelling of burnt oil and his eyes red with exhaustion, I felt at first a wild, sweet surge of joy but a second later the pain returned. I began worrying for him all over again, a roiling snake of fear uncurling in my breast. I put my head under my pillow like a child trying to blot out the reality of another day and Denis sat beside me, for once at a complete loss.

  And then he stood up and drew me to my feet. ‘This won’t do, Nona,’ he said, his eyes suddenly dancing. ‘Don’t you see we are at risk of chucking in the towel? That’s precisely what they want us to do, and I don’t think we should let them have their way. What say we take those poor under-exercised nags of ours for the devil of a ride?’

  We rode all morning, kicking the horses into a lather and then letting them catch their wind for a minute or two before booting them back into a gallop. We sang, and shouted poetry to each other as we rode, and about noon we clattered into a little Chinese prayer garden high above the Johore Straits. There were painted concrete figures all round us, warriors and maidens, and mythical beasts. A single frangipani tree, splendid in its loneliness, stood in the centre. The priests had gone – we could see their little cabins with doors agape – and the only sign of life was a family of cats, preening themselves with proprietorial arrogance.

  ‘Lunch, I think,’ Denis said, helping me down from a distinctly relieved Dame Fashion. ‘Amah only had time to chuck a few sandwiches together, but you know what Omar Khayyam said –

  Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,

  A flask of Wine, a Book of Verse –

  And thou

  Beside me singing in the Wilderness –

  And Wilderness is Paradise enow.’

  There was a pool full of waterlilies, and we sat on its edge, munching our sandwiches in the scented shade of the frangipani. ‘Did you know this place existed?’ I asked.

  ‘Chu Lun told me about it,’ Denis said. ‘He said it was very quiet and beautiful. I thought I might bring you here because we need to talk.’

  I knew what he was going to talk about, and bowed my head.

  ‘I’m afraid sticking it out doesn’t make sense anymore,’ he said. ‘Now that the Japanese have taken Malaya, Singapore will not be able to hold out. They have control of the sea and of the air, and it’s only a matter of days before they’ll be swarming all over the island, killing and raping like they did in Hong Kong. I’m terribly sorry, darling, but you are going to have to take the children out.’

  I looked up at him. ‘I’m not going without you . . .’ I began, but he put a finger on my lips.

  ‘There is a ship leaving tomorrow, and Captain Mulock has offered a chit for you and the children,’ he said. ‘You would be going with other families from the Naval Base. I think we should take the offer. I’ll be fine, because I’m with my ship. When the time comes, we’ll potter along behind you. Probably get to Sumatra at the same time you do.’

  Part of my mind felt a wave of relief. For days now I had harboured an awful picture of Japanese soldiers bayoneting the two boys, and I knew I would never forgive myself if it ever happened. But I didn’t want to leave Denis. The thought of kissing him goodbye, of leaving him behind, of living without him, turned my heart to ice. The talk about coming after us on HDML 24 was hokum. He would be under orders, and nobody would order a naval vessel to push off like that. HDML 24 would remain in Singapore until the end.

  ‘I’m not going, Denis,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s a tempting thought, because of course I’d like the boys to be somewhere safe. But I’m afraid I’m quite determined to stay and see this thing through by your side. You will have to ring Captain Mulock and tell him to give his chit to someone else.’

  We argued, holding hands under the frangipani tree, but I was immovable. I simply could not imagine an existence without Denis, and that gave me the strength to resist his every argument. When he mentioned the children I put my fingers in my ears, tears forming in my eyes at the agony of my thoughts.

  Finally he took my hand and kissed it. ‘We’ll make a deal,’ he said. ‘I won’t force you to take Mulock’s chit, but if the Japs land on Singapore Island, you must promise to do exactly what I say. Even if I tell you to try and escape.’

  ‘If the Japs win of course we’ll make a bolt for it,’ I said. ‘And you had better be beside us.’ I thought a moment. ‘I’ll give you the promise you want if you promise in return that you will try and escape with us.’

  ‘I’m under orders,’ Denis began. ‘But I think that if we are beaten it will be every man for himself . . .’

  The clap of the explosion caught us by surprise. There were no bombers in the sky and yet something had exploded not a quarter of a mile away. And then there was another explosion, and then another.

  ‘Artillery,’ Denis said shortly. ‘They’ve set up their guns on the Johore shore and those must be ranging shots.’ He stood up and squinted towards the north-west. ‘They’re probably aiming for the Tinggi telecommunications tower in Serangoon. They can see that from Johore.’

  Our picnic was spoilt, but a new-found mood of buoyancy remained. Our agreement �
�� impractical and absurd though it may have been – had cleared the air and as we rode home we dawdled down the bridle paths, chatting about how we’d get out of Singapore if the place were overrun. Boats figured prominently in our discussion, probably because we knew how easy it would be to slip away by night and be lost in the islands by the time the bombers came. Unfortunately, the Norma II was not available: the Air Force had requisitioned her a week before, and the boys and I had seen her sailed away with an RAF flag flapping from her mizzen mast. But there were other craft. Chu Lun’s cousins’ junk, for example, lying just up the coast from Mata Ikan. And a dozen fishing sampans, big, seaworthy boats with diesel motors.

  The Japanese artillery fire intensified over the next few days until it was almost continuous. In some ways it was more frightening than the bombing because there was absolutely no warning. You could be shopping in Changi, and there would be a sudden eruption of earth across the road, followed by an ear-shattering ‘Bang!’ You’d fall flat on your face, and then realise how stupid that was. If a shell had your name on it, lying on the ground wouldn’t do a blind bit of good.

  By the end of the first week of February the Japanese had occupied Pulau Ujong and set up 25-pounder batteries on the British-built gun aprons on the island. Together with their batteries on the high ground west of Johore Bahru they had the whole island of Singapore in range. They even had the cheek to hoist an observation balloon over the Johore Bahru fish markets so that their spotters could see the fall of shot and direct fire to the targets they wanted to hit.

  One of the targets they wanted to hit was Aw Boon Haw’s home in the north-western part of the city. Together with Tan Kah Kee, Ah Boon Haw had raised millions for the Chinese Nationalist Government, and in their malicious way the Japanese military were determined to exact revenge as soon as possible. All one afternoon shells pounded the Aw Boon Haw compound, smashing his garage full of imported cars, his Hollywood-style swimming pool, his aviary of rare songbirds, his tennis court and his badminton lawn. By a freak of good fortune the house itself remained intact. Ah Boon Haw himself was at the Cathay Cinema at the time, quite oblivious of the personal attention the Japanese were paying him.

  Denis had been given a terrible job. The flood of families leaving Singapore had become a torrent, spurred on by news of fresh atrocities and a change of tone by the authorities. Instead of being exhorted to ‘stay and fight shoulder to shoulder with our brown sisters’, white women were now being told they were ‘useless mouths to feed’ and that their patriotic duty was to leave as soon as possible. The torrent of people had to be transported from the docks, now busy unloading the newly arrived supply convoy, to lines of passenger ships lying out in the Roads. All sorts of small craft had been conscripted to the task, including HDML 24. These vessels would load up with unhappy humanity and make a high-speed dash for the ships. If they were lucky nothing happened and the passengers would scramble aboard the rescue vessels grinning with relief. But if an attack came while the boats were making their run, all hell would break loose. Ack-ack guns would bark from the wharf and from any armed ships in the harbour, and the small vessels packed with evacuees would open up with their own armament, either Oerlikons or machine-guns mounted on the bridge. The bombers would come first, and huge columns of water would lift off the oily surface of the harbour accompanied by the whine and ping of shrapnel. And then the Zeros would have their turn, skimming in low with machine-guns stuttering.

  Boats went down regularly, their bottoms blown out by underwater explosions or the whole craft smashed to smithereens by a direct hit. Denis passed many such wrecks but could not stop for survivors. He had his own passengers to look after, and a vessel stopped in the water was a sitting duck. As HDML 24 roared past, the crew would stare down into the water where women and children choked and screamed, bled and died, their luggage floating around them.

  There were occasional miracles. On one occasion the scene was just too pitiful and Denis turned back in a wide, fast circle, stopped engines and coasted up to a group floundering towards him, including half a dozen women pitifully trying to hold their babies above the blood-red water. A Zero lined them up and ran in, its flaps down to wash off speed and give added stability for the pilot to take aim. The crew of HDML 24 were standing by with nets to haul in the survivors but could do nothing, frozen into immobility by the certainty that they would all be dead within the next few seconds. But the Zero didn’t fire. Instead it hauled away in a tight turn, its wing-tip feathering the water, and then lined up for another attack. This time the crew were galvanised into action, hauling in the survivors like men possessed. They were certainly dead men now, and the thought evaporated their fear like water thrown into a fire.

  Again the Zero didn’t fire, this time roaring up in a steep climb and heading away to the north-east. The reason it didn’t fire is of course unknown and unknowable. Sudden compunction from a decent man? Or had the guns simply jammed, overheated by so much firing?

  The night after that particular incident Denis came home in a strange, unfamiliar mood. He brought the Marvelette to a skidding stop on the gravel turning circle and flung himself up the verandah steps, bellowing for me and the boys. ‘Come on, sluggards,’ he laughed, swinging both boys off the floor together, ‘we’re going to throw aside dull care and have some fun!’

  Half an hour later we were in a sailing sampan, thrashing along the beach in a smother of spume. There was a sharp onshore wind, clean and almost cold, and as we heeled steeply and the water rushed by close under the lee gunwale, I found myself laughing with the sheer joy of living.

  ‘What if a Jap plane comes?’ I shouted into Denis’s ear, but he just shook his head. There was a devil in his blue eyes, and when I tried to ask again he put his hand over my mouth.

  I suddenly realised that Denis didn’t care, and I smiled back at him, a warm smile of complete understanding. If the Japs came we’d die together. It would be awful, but if we were going to die it seemed much better that death come to us on our terms, while we had breath to laugh at the whole mad comedy and arms to hold each other.

  But no planes came, and the light died so that we were sailing in semi-darkness. And then we saw Amah, a dark figure standing on the edge of the water with a torch in her hand. Waiting for us, as she had waited a hundred times before.

  We had pork trotters and rice for dinner, hot and savoury, and we had it in the dining room. The children ate with us as a treat, at first wide-eyed with the honour, but soon so tired that Agatha and Christine crept into the room and took them gently to their beds.

  Denis and I sat on after the things had been cleared away, talking and smoking. We moved our chairs close together so that our hands touched often, not deliberately but as if by accident. And each time we touched we’d glance at each other and smile almost shyly.

  It was to be the last time that Denis and I were to dine together at Whitelawns.

  During that night, waves of Japanese soldiers crossed the narrow Straits of Johore by landing craft and began storming the mangrove-tangled beaches of Singapore Island. The attack took place on the north-western corner of the island, and while the first waves were slaughtered by the Australian 22nd Brigade, the Japanese did not give up. They kept coming, wave after wave of barges pressing home the attack. By one o’clock in the morning there were sufficient troops ashore for their patrols to penetrate between the spread-out Australian units, and suddenly the mood of the battle changed. Many of the Australians were hurriedly recruited reinforcements who had never been in action before, and the fierceness of the attack had caught them by surprise. Nothing in their training had prepared them for the reality of a night action in broken, waterlogged country where the enemy was suddenly all around them, firing into their flanks, even firing at them from behind. A violent storm broke, adding to the confusion with vivid flashes of lightning and rain so heavy that the world seemed to dissolve into mud and blackness. At two in the morning, the Australian commanders ordered their men to fall
back to prepared positions. In the hell of mud and darkness, the retreat became a rout.

  By mid-morning the next day it was clear that not only had the Japanese secured a beachhead, they had captured almost a quarter of the island. Even Tengah Airfield had been overrun, and advance units were in sight of Singapore City itself.

  Some troops stood firm, in the face of overwhelming odds. A company of Dalforce had been positioned in the creeks and mudflats between the Australian 27th Brigade and the Kranji River. When Dalley had visited the previous evening, the Japanese ‘softening up’ bombardment had already begun. Mindful of the disastrous retreats in the adjoining sector the previous night, Dalley made a point of speaking to every man, emphasising the need to stay calm and purposeful and, above all else, to hold the position. He reiterated the message to their commander, a tin-miner-turned-major called Harte-Barry. ‘I think the Japs will attack tonight,’ Dalley confided. ‘Our people look very steady, but they have yet to be tested.’

  When the attack came the defenders were ready. Time after time barges trying to force a landing in that sector were hit by two-inch mortars and the Japanese soldiers raked by Lewis guns as they tried to scramble clear.

  ‘A turkey-shoot,’ Harte-Barry said to Robert Koh as the two men strolled with affected unconcern amongst their company’s dug-in firing positions.

  ‘Turkeys don’t keep running at you, and they don’t have guns,’ Robert said dryly. His own Tikus people were in point position, dug in with their foremost firing lines just above the muddy beach. He was so proud of his men that there was a lump in his throat.

  Although there were some incursions along the left flank the tenacious Australian troops, supported by artillery, managed to hold their own. However, their brigade commander, believing his men to be in danger of being cut off, ordered them to withdraw to new positions about three miles back. Before retreating, the men were ordered to destroy all oil and fuel stocks by opening the cocks of the nearby storage tanks and setting alight the thousands of gallons of highly volatile aviation spirit that flowed down the waterways. The conflagration incinerated a battalion of enemy troops attempting an outflanking manoeuvre. But the tactic had an unfortunate consequence: the Japanese were just about to call off the attack when, by the light of the burning fuel, they saw the Australians retreating. Scarcely able to believe his good luck, Lieutenant-General Nishimura, with his men in the mangroves, ordered them to advance.