by Ian Blake
They watched as the Japanese ran the first vehicle on to the makeshift ferry, which was then hauled across the river by the ropes. Then the ferry was hauled back and the process repeated, while all the time additional lorries were arriving at the river to await their turn to cross.
‘We’ll sink the ferry first,’ Tiller told his crew in an undertone. ‘Once it’s in mid-stream all we have to do is perforate the oil drums.’
‘What about all those lorries?’ Timber objected.
‘We’ll shoot those up on the way back.’
They waited until the cumbrous ferry had been loaded and was beginning its laborious journey back across the river, and then moved out from under cover of the bank. Tiller gripped his tommy-gun in anticipation when he saw that this time the ferry was loaded with the lorry towing the anti-tank gun.
As they approached they saw that several soldiers were in the open lorry and several others were riding on the gun. When the ferry was halfway across the river he told the helmsman to start the outboard engine and its throbbing roar cut through the quietness of the night. But it did not cause any immediate reaction among the soldiers aboard the ferry, for they were not alert and must have thought their enemy was many miles upstream of them.
Even when the boat appeared out of the shadows they did not immediately realize what was happening, and it was only when the two Brens opened up that they scrambled for their weapons. By then it was too late.
Two of them even tried to swing the anti-tank gun in the boat’s direction before they were cut down by the Bren guns. The Brens then punctured the oil drums nearest them while the helmsman guided the boat up to the ropes that connected the ferry with the west bank.
‘Shove it in neutral,’ Tiller shouted at him above the steady knocking of a ‘woodpecker’ that had opened up on them from the far bank. ‘I’m going to cut them.’
The helmsman threw the outboard out of gear while Tiller grabbed the ropes trailing in the water and severed them with his commando knife. Then the helmsman revved up the engine and steered the boat so that the Brens could riddle the oil drums holding up the other side of the ferry.
By now water had begun to fill the upstream drums, making the ferry tilt, and suddenly both lorry and gun slid into the water with a tremendous splash, and the Bren gunners turned their attention to the men struggling in the water before lighting the smoke generators as the boat continued to surge downstream. Seconds later the river was covered by a pall of white smoke and the firing from the banks slackened and then stopped.
Tiller shouted for the helmsman to swing the boat round and, under the protection of the smoke, roared towards the west bank, where the remaining vehicles were lined up.
The boat roared through the smoke and when it emerged on the other side, both Bren gunners emptied their magazines into the lorries. One exploded with a tremendous blast which for a moment lit up the whole area as if it was daylight. It revealed Japanese soldiers running in all directions.
As the boat passed the lorries lining the bank, Tiller saw the mayhem they were causing and felt the adrenalin coursing through him. He shouted to the helmsman to maintain his course alongside the bank so that the Bren gunners could pick off some of the figures running along it. He brought up his tommy-gun and levelled it at the shore. His thumb found the torch’s button and the powerful beam scoured the bank. One Japanese, crouching by the river’s edge with his sub-machine-gun raised, was caught in its glare. Tiller pulled the trigger. The tommy-gun bucked in his hand as he emptied his magazine at the Japanese, who staggered under the impact of the heavy .45 bullets and then fell into the water.
‘There’s another,’ shouted Timber, raising his carbine and aiming over Tiller’s shoulder.
Tiller took his thumb off the torch button, wrenched out the empty magazine, flicked it around and inserted the full one.
Timber’s carbine cracked by Tiller’s ear.
‘To the right, Tiger, to the right! Where’s the bugger gone?’
Suddenly, and unexpectedly, bullets from an automatic weapon began whipping above the boat and several smacked into the makeshift platform.
Tiller raised his tommy-gun, the stress in Timber’s voice giving him a surge of urgency, but the strapping holding the torch had been loosened by the vibration of the tommy-gun and his thumb could not find the torch button.
‘For Christ’s sake.’ It was Timber’s hoarse voice beside him.
The machine-gunner on the bank had found his range now and bullets began splintering the boat. Out of the corner of his eye Tiller saw one of the Bren gunners slump over his weapon. Then his thumb found the button and the torch beam probed the darkness. It wavered along the bank and zeroed in on a Japanese lying on the ground frantically working to clear the cartridge feed of his light machine-gun.
Tiller let his tommy-gun rip, emptying his magazine in one vengeful burst. But as he fired, the boat bucked and rolled and, miraculously, the soldier seemed unscathed. But, instead of rolling to one side to avoid the cricle of light on him, the Japanese stood up and attempted to throw a hand-grenade at the boat as it surged past him. He had just got the grenade in his hand when he was cut down by the hail of bullets from the uninjured Bren gunner. But even on the ground he continued to try to prime the grenade – until Timber’s carbine barked again.
‘Silly bastard,’ said Timber with some satisfaction. ‘Teach him to be heroic.’
‘Get the fuck out of here,’ Tiller shouted at the helmsman, who swerved the boat towards the middle of the river and opened the throttle as far as it would go.
For a few long, agonizing moments bullets continued to hit the water around them and to fly over their heads, and then from the further bank a parachute flare was fired and lit the water with an eerie pink glow. But instead of it being fired ahead of the retreating boat the flare just illuminated the carnage the SBS had wreaked. It swung in the air before descending slowly into the river and spluttering out. Wrapped in darkness, the boat sped upstream.
‘I’ll run out of fuel if we keep going at this speed,’ the helmsman shouted to Tiller above the roar of the outboard.
‘Keep going,’ Tiller ordered as he moved forward to look at the fallen Bren gunner.
‘He’s dead,’ said the other one flatly. ‘We were just too fucking slow.’
Tiller accepted the criticism with a nod. He felt the adrenalin ebb from him and despair and exhaustion edge in. He dragged the gunner into the bottom of the boat and looked down at the young face. Either he was getting too old to fight, he thought bitterly, or the SBS were recruiting underage volunteers. He covered the body with a tarpaulin.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Timber said.
‘Then whose fucking fault was it?’ growled Tiller, and Timber shrugged and looked away.
‘It wasn’t your fault, Tiger,’ Grayson said when they reported in after the operation. ‘That Jap must have been just plain suicidal. Anyone with a grain of self-preservation would have kept his head down. He must have ignored the incoming fire completely.’
‘He even stood up after he had been peppered and tried to chuck a grenade,’ Timber said in some awe.
‘Fanatics,’ said Grayson in disgust.
Tiller kept his own counsel. He had heard that word so often since he had been in Burma, mostly on the lips of those who did not actually encounter the Japanese in battle. At first he had thought the same: that the enemy were just simple peasants who had been indoctrinated to die for their Emperor.
But he knew now it wasn’t as simple as that. The same went for the earlier widespread belief that the British had been defeated in Burma – one hell of a beating, as one American general had described it – because the Japanese had been used to the jungle and knew instinctively how to fight in it. The truth was that the Japanese had not known any more about fighting in the jungle than the British: they had just trained better and had employed better tactics. Some called them fanatical. He called them brave, very brave.
Courage
wasn’t the preserve of one side in any war. Yet once again he had underestimated the bravery of his opponents. That was why the death of the young Bren gunner was down to him. He should have known that they would be lying in wait for the boat upstream, and that whatever fire-power the SBS could have laid down would not have diverted the ambushers from their task. He knew he should have broken off the attack while he had been ahead of the game. And he hadn’t.
Well, he intended to return that night and, using different tactics and different weapons – a two-inch mortar properly mounted might be very effective – he was going to avenge the death of that gunner many times over.
Grayson took him to one side.
‘I had a signal while you were out. You’re wanted back in Ceylon instanter.’
‘What, now?’
‘Now, Tiger. A Dakota’s being diverted to pick you up.’
When the Group had been moved from Ceylon to the Chindwin they had had a signal from India saying: ‘Hours count.’ Yet when they had arrived at Calcutta no one had known who they were or where they were meant to be going. One wag had even asked what ship they were the survivors from. ‘Immediately’ to Tiller meant next week, next month – certainly not today or tomorrow. He had other business to complete.
‘I’ve got a different plan for tomorrow night, skipper,’ Tiller said. ‘Ceylon can go fly a kite for a few days.’
Grayson studied Tiller discreetly. As one of the first officers to be trained by Roger Pountney, Grayson had seen enough action in the Mediterranean to know that when an NCO or junior officer was bent on getting his own back his judgement was impaired. That was dangerous. Grayson knew the accuracy of the Spanish saying: ‘If you want revenge then first dig two graves.’
But Grayson was also a skilled officer; he knew there were times to lay down the law and there were times when it was best ignored. He just told Tiller to get some breakfast and then to get his head down, and when Tiller had left he sent a signal saying the colour sergeant was delayed. An hour later he received a reply which simply said: ‘Undelay. Tasler.’
During the morning Grayson was told by the air controller at the forward airstrip that the diverted aircraft was expected in three hours. The airstrip was an hour away by jeep.
Grayson groaned and went to Tiller’s tent and shook him awake. ‘Sorry, Tiger,’ he said. ‘Orders are orders.’
Tiller simply nodded, dressed, packed his kitbag, shook Grayson’s hand and climbed aboard the waiting jeep. He didn’t feel like saying goodbye to Timber or anyone else. They would understand.
16
‘You were quick,’ said Tasler, waving Tiller to a seat. ‘Grayson said you were going to be delayed.’
Good for Grayson, Tiller thought, he’d done his best. What now?
‘What now, sir?’
‘What do you think, Tiger?’
‘Those effing Welmans, sir, if you’ll excuse the expression. That’s my guess.’
Tasler’s normally cheerful face was grim.
‘You’ve got it in one, Tiger.’
Tiller felt resignation overtake him, but perhaps his time had come. He had had a good run, a remarkable one, really, when he came to think of it. He knew he shouldn’t have been so angry at losing that young gunner. It was an infallible sign that when a man reacted like that it was time he was rested. Perhaps a stint as an instructor was just what was required. Like hell it was, he thought, irritably.
‘And am I going to be an instructor here in Ceylon or somewhere else, sir?’ he asked in a subdued voice.
Tasler looked at him sharply. ‘Sorry. I thought you understood. I want you for an operation.’
The weight lifted off Tiller and he leant forward eagerly. ‘That’s different, sir.’
‘Very different,’ Tasler agreed. He hesitated, and then went on: ‘You understand, don’t you, that only volunteers are required? You are under no obligation whatsoever – to me or anyone else – to volunteer. Your position as an instructor is open to you at any time.’
Even as he was speaking, Tasler knew his words were falling on deaf ears, but it was a rigmarole he had to go through.
‘You understand, Tiger?’
Tiller nodded, finding it hard to hide his impatience. ‘What’s the job, sir?’
Tasler leant forward and pressed his intercom button, which connected him with his WRNS secretary. ‘Daisy, send in Lieutenant Commander Davidson, please.’
Tasler rose from behind his desk and paced his office. ‘I’m not sure how to phrase this, Tiger, but there comes a time when – well – when a man has seen too much action. Everyone has their limits. You’ve been on the go ever since Bordeaux. Don’t you think . . . ?’
Tiller was relieved that Tasler was interrupted by an abrupt knock on the office door. Had the major gone troppo or something? Perhaps staff-officer duties had finally sent him round the bend. They knew each other so well it would have been difficult for Tiller to hide his doubts about the major’s sanity if Tasler had persisted.
‘Ah, Harry. Thanks for coming along. This is Colour Sergeant Tiller. I mentioned him to you.’
Davidson smiled and nodded at Tiller. He was tall and studious-looking, with courtly manners. In peacetime he had been an Oxford don, a lecturer in Oriental Studies. Now he was one of the best intelligence officers SEAC had. He knew this, but he wasn’t yet sure if everyone else did. Under his arm he carried, like a telescope, a huge rolled-up map of South-East Asia and the western Pacific. He dropped it on Tasler’s table and spread it out.
‘Our problem is the enormous distances involved,’ he said. ‘If we are to pre-empt any attacks by the Japs . . .’
‘Hold on, Harry,’ Tasler raised his hand. ‘Before we get down to the nitty-gritty, I think you should fill the picture in a little more fully for Tiller.’
‘Of course. As I am sure you are aware, Colour Sergeant, General MacArthur’s forces are beginning to work their way up the Philippines while the Pacific advance has reached the Palau Islands here.’ The lieutenant commander’s finger pointed to a number of tiny dots in the Philippine Sea. ‘You can see that both advances are still a long way from Japan itself, but logically the Japanese should now be massing all their forces, particularly their naval ones, to prevent any further advance on their homeland. However,’ – and here Davidson glanced up at both the men listening to him – ‘Western logic does not appeal to the Japanese. Our logic is intellectual, theirs is intuitive. In short, we find it hard to know which way they’re going to jump.’
‘Know thine enemy,’ said Tasler.
‘Exactly, Blondie. But that’s easier said than done. I once asked an English colleague of mine who was married to a Western-educated Japanese academic if she really understood her husband. She smiled and said: "We get on extremely well together except that every now and then his mind slips back a thousand years." I find it is the same with the Japanese high command.’
Davidson paused, mustering his thoughts. Tiller said helpfully: ‘You mean the Japs have moved their Mobile Fleet away from the Yanks?’
‘Exactly. It sounds absurd to us, I know – rather like resurrecting William the Conqueror’s tactics at the Battle of Hastings – but in AD 975 the Japanese beat an invading Korean force not by defeating them on the ground but by a counter invasion. I believe the high command is thinking along the same lines now. By striking south-west into the Bay of Bengal instead of south-east as we would anticipate, they would create two simultaneous situations. They would catch us on the hop and they would sever our supply lines into Burma and China. Frankly, they still have the naval resources to get to Ceylon and beyond, just as their fleet did in 1942. Given the strength of our naval forces in Ceylon it would be like a hot knife through butter.’
‘They might get there, but they’d never get back,’ said Tasler. ‘Not without massive air cover.’
Tiller remembered the laung-zat floating gracefully down the Chindwin and said: ‘I don’t think that would enter their minds, sir.’
&nb
sp; Davidson smiled appreciatively. ‘Spot on, Colour Sergeant.’
‘So you think they’re going to strike in this direction?’ Tasler asked.
‘We simply don’t know. It could just be a bluff. But Supremo thinks we can’t afford to be wrong on this one. Hence a pre-emptive strike.’
‘Against what and where, sir?’ Tiller asked Tasler eagerly.
The two officers exchanged glances. ‘He’s got the highest security clearance,’ said Tasler. ‘He’s got to know sometime.’
Davidson nodded. ‘I agree.’
Tiller’s mind flashed back to his last interview with the commanding officer of the Welman course. ‘It must be one of the Jap battleships,’ he said. ‘They have the world’s biggest, don’t they?’
‘There’s only one left after Leyte Gulf,’ Davidson said. ‘The Kamato. We know she’s reached Singapore along with other units of the Mobile Fleet.’
Singapore! So that was it!
‘Do you know anything about her?’ Tasler asked. ‘She’s over 800 feet long and displaces 64,000 tons.’
Tiller gave a low whistle. ‘She’d make something like the Ramillies look like a motor boat, sir.’
‘Her main armament is nine eighteen-inch guns. They can outrange any major Allied warship afloat and at twenty-seven knots she’s faster than most of them. Her secondary armament is almost the equivalent of two of our latest cruisers.’
‘Her main belt armour?’ Tiller asked. He wasn’t concerned with her deck or turret armour, but the main belt armour protected the ship’s most vulnerable parts just above and below the water-line.
‘We’re not sure. At least sixteen inches.’
‘Not even a Welman charge could penetrate that.’
‘Quite. But that only protects her engines and magazines. Like all warships, it must be thinner towards the bow and stern. By how much we don’t know.’
