The River Dark

by Nicholas Bennett

  "I said, it's an injun summer," Don Graham repeated loudly. Tom Sighed.

  "Aye, it is that," he said and glanced out of the nicotine fogged windows. Although it was near dark, Dave had left the top windows open; most of the men in the bar wore short sleeved shirts that night, jackets were slung casually over shoulders as a precaution against the expected onset of Autumn and, as Don Graham said, Autumn looked like it had been delayed that year. A roar of appreciation rose from the adjoining bar; it sounded like the darts match was going in favour of the home team. In the corner, Elsie Morris sipped her sherry, waiting it seemed, for a husband that would never turn up. Harold Morris had given his life at Dunkirk while Elsie was six months heavy with the daughter that he would never see. The snug door opened with a burst of energy as the four men that comprised the darts team entered, the wave of victory carrying them through the small room and towards the bar.

  "Saw 'em off, then, did you boys?" Dave St. John asked. Not one of the "boys" was under the age of forty-five.

  "Oh aye, landlord, we did that," Mick McMahon boomed. A big man with a spirit that lifted even the dullest of rooms- such as the snug at The Railway – McMahon ordered four pints and four whisky chasers. Dave St. John began to pour the pints with mixed emotions. On the one hand, his coffers needed to be filled by a good drinking session- he was struggling to pay his bills as things were- but, on the other, it meant a long night and he was knackered. He'd had the dray men that morning and hadn't sat down all day.

  Tom folded his paper to leave. With the expert eye of the publican, Dave knew that Tom couldn't abide the presence of booming Mick for long. Tom drained his glass and began to shuffle off the stool. Elsie lifted her sherry to her lips. Albert Pinchin belched quietly. Freddy March stared into the murky depths of his pint pot perhaps thinking of that perfect day when, during The Great Flood of '33, he had rowed his son down

  Riverside Street and back. The door to the outside street opened quietly and the newcomer stepped into the bar. Over the heads of his regulars, Dave gaped at the visitor. The men at the bar turned to see the cause of the landlord's reaction.

  By its very nature and location, The Railway provided for a varied clientele of the diehard locals and transient travelers who waited for the minutes to tick by until the next train would arrive ready to sweep them off down the tracks and onto their lives' journeys, the brief sojourn at a typically grimy pub soon forgotten. There were times when Dave St. John thanked all that was holy for the advent of such visitors; they were a welcome relief to the monotony of Tom Phillips' brown-aled, monosyllabic conversation, strangely typical of the sullen male of this grim town- so unlike the colourful charm of his native Birmingham- and the repetitive pattern of St. John's days, days that were marked by the coming and going of the same faces and the subsequent dull insights into their narrow lives. He enjoyed chatting to the transient crowd, genuinely interested in where they were going, where they had been, what they did and what they were going to do; it was a reminder that- somewhere at least- life was still going on. Some even rented one of his seldom used, dusty old rooms for the night, their journeys broken by an inefficient rail service. But this visitor was wholly unexpected.

  A diminutive man with yellow skin bobbed and bowed at them smiling politely.

  *

  St. John led the other five men up the poorly lit narrow stairwell, their footsteps dulled by the deep red carpet with its swirling orange pattern. Freddie March followed- his catatonia long gone, Albert Pinchin next, Mick McMahon and his two cronies, Paul Hart and Johnny Spiers jostled on the steps behind. Tom Phillips stood at the foot of the stairs still hesitant, unconvinced by the arguments that had rallied back and forth across the small room over the past two hours. Nevertheless he began to ascend the stairs behind the others.

  “What the fuck are we doing?” Tom muttered and Johnnie Spiers span at him fiercely. The hateful bastard's look said it all. Tom followed.

  Spiers had started it. In the self-recriminations that followed, they all remembered that much.

  The Japanese tourist had smiled politely at them all, bowing nervously. The men at the bar returned his greeting with cold-eyed silence. The little man stepped up to the bar and spoke to St. John in passable English. He was waiting for a bus to take him to Stratford-Upon-Avon, the home of Shakespeare. He told Dave that his bus didn't leave until the following morning and that he needed a room, please. The men at the bar listened to his pronunciation with absolute hatred: st'atfo-Po-Avo, Shay'peare, loom. Dave St. John began to shake his head. No chance. Johnny Spiers spoke up with good-natured friendliness.

  "Of course you can find him a room, Dave. Poor fellow's been traveling all day by the looks of him. Let's get him a drink."

  Al and Tom looked at each other in confusion and then to the landlord. St. John looked equally bemused. Tom noticed that Freddie March had sat bolt upright and was staring in amazement at the newcomer.

  "But-" the publican began but Spiers butted in once more.

  "Yes, get the man a drink. I'll buy. What can I get you, friend?"

  Freddie March uttered a strangled sound but Mick McMahon took two large strides over to the old man and put his arm around him. He whispered something in Freddie's ear and both men fell silent. Freddie picked up his long forgotten pint and drank deeply. The Japanese visitor looked from face to face nervously. McMahon smiled his broad smile at him. Al nodded at him. Paul Hart winked and even Freddie tipped his glass in the outsider's direction. No-one noticed the departure of Don Graham. Graham was not the brightest of men but he didn't like trouble and, as a result, he could sense it early.

  "Water," he replied. "Please." The bow followed. The bastard Spiers returned the bow and chuckled. The Japanese bowed again and Spiers followed suit. McMahon began to laugh his over loud laugh and soon Albert Pinchin brayed his donkey cough. Freddie March smiled and revealed his three remaining teeth and began to snort along with the others. Paul Hart joined them. The laugh undulated higher until Tom thought that it didn't sound like laughter anymore, it sounded more like the kind of screaming you might hear on the wards at Rennick.

  When Dave St. John led that evening's unexpected guest behind the bar and through the back to the stairs, the men at the bar sat quietly, looking into their drinks, avoiding eye contact. It was the idiosyncrasy of their generation. They didn’t talk. Not then. Elsie sipped her sherry; they had all forgotten that she was there. Another departure set the optics quivering once more. Last train to London, Tom thought and felt panic in the pit of his stomach, a sensation he hadn't felt as strongly since awaiting the order to march across an open field in the full knowledge that Gerry was somewhere near and intent upon taking his life. He stepped off his bar stool and donned his cap.

  "Where the fuck do you think you're goin', Tom Phillips?" Freddie March said from the other end of the bar. The old man had the authority in his voice that Tom remembered well from the days when he had been little Tommy Phillips with short baggy grey trousers and scabbed knees.

  "Going home," Tom replied disliking the higher pitch in his voice. "I been out longer 'an I said I'd be any way."

  The old man emitted a sound of disgust.

  "Always were a little coward, Tommy, weren't yer?" Tom looked at the old man, struggling to maintain his dignity.

  "I-I said I'd be-"

  "You'll stay 'ere and do what's right," the old man barked at him, "or you won't drink in 'ere any more."

  Tom looked at the other men's solemn eyes; even Mick McMahon seemed shrunken in that moment. Freddie arched his bushy grey eyebrows at Tom.

  "I was never a fucking coward, Mister March," Tom said through gritted teeth and sat heavily on his stool again. He removed his hat. "I stood my ground with the rest," he muttered and looked longingly at his empty glass. Mick McMahon stepped around the bar and reached for another bottle of brown ale . He knocked off the cap and handed it to Tom.

  "I always stood my ground," Tom whispered and began to pour his drink. His han
d was shaking.

  "I know you did," the old man soothed. "You were always a good lad."

  Tom blinked away the moisture in his eyes.

  *

  The six of them stood outside of the Jap's room, listening. There was nothing to hear other than the sounds of their own breathing. Perhaps the little man was asleep. Freddie March nodded to Johnny Spiers who stepped forward and put his hand around the worn brass doorknob.

  "How old do you think he is?" McMahon had asked in the hushed tones that they had all adopted. St. John had barred the doors and closed the heavy curtains; he had turned off all the bar lights with the exception of the corner lamps. They sat around the corner table and waited as St. John came back to the table with a bottle of Johnny Walker and six glasses.

  "Hard to say," Paul Hart had said. "They don' age in the same way that we do. Old enough to have been in the war though, of that, I'm sure."

  March nodded eagerly. "He was there alright. Prob'ly in Burma with my boy."

  "You can't know that, Freddie," Tom interjected. "How could you know that?"

  "Not Mister March any more then, Tommy?" The old man fixed him with his watery stare. Tom looked away miserably. "No. I can't know, you're right. But what I do know is them yellow bastards were ruthless."

  "Sadistic," Spiers put in, nodding solemnly. You'd know all about that Spiers, Tom thought grimly. Spiers had always been a bully, ever since his schoolyard days.

  "Look," Tom said trying to sound reasonable. "I know how you all feel."

  "Do you?" March snorted.

  "Yes I do. I was in Europe during the war, remember. I didn't fight the Japanese but I saw my fair share of-"

  "Exactly," March retorted. "You were up against Gerry. An army you could unnerstan’. Not like the cruelty of the Jap though. Nothin’ like it. The German was more like us, doing what he ‘ad to."

  "Auschwitz, Belsen, things like that?" Tom returned sarcastically. The old man ignored him.

  "The Japs enjoyed killing and enjoyed torturin'," Freddie finished.

  Tom sighed and sipped his whisky. McMahon spoke up then.

  "Maybe Tom's got a point. Perhaps we should all go home and forget about this. It's foolish. The war's over."

  Johnny Spiers shook his head vehemently. "Is it though? You've heard about them Japs still out there in the jungle refusing to surrender an' the POWs that are unaccounted for. Some think they're still out there too."

  "Rumours," Tom sighed. "Don't you think that everyone's paid their dues by now?"

  "No I do not!" March shouted. "For what they did out there, the way they tortured and murdered-"

  "That's war, Freddie," McMahon said quietly.

  "No it isn't," St. John said. "We never behaved like that."

  "Oh come on," McMahon entreated and lowered his massive tones to a barely audible whisper. "We all did things that we don't like to admit, even to ourselves. That's our way of paying for it. Living with…living with the shame. The bad dreams." Tom and Al looked away, embarrassed by McMahon's honesty. McMahon coughed awkwardly.

  Freddie shook his head grinning that old man's gap toothed grin. "How did they pay for it, eh?"

  "Hiroshima," Tom said quietly, "Nagasaki."

  The men drank in silence. No-one had spoken of what they were going to do to the man upstairs. Freddie broke the silence.

  "Do you know what they did to my boy?"

  "Don't do this to yourself, Fred," Paul Hart said to the old man.

  "Do you know what those bastards did?" His voice was on the verge of breaking with emotion. He stared at Tom as he spoke.

  "We know, Freddie," he said but the old man went on regardless.

  "Was Henry Gibson tol' me. He didn't want to but I made 'im."

  I bet you did, McMahon thought.

  "'E was in the same regiment, y' see. Both boys together, went to school together, signed up together in 1944. My boy was so determined to do his bit for King and Country like his old man and I- silly old fool that I was- watched him go with pride in my 'eart and a lump in my throat." The old man shook his head and blinked away tired old tears. "The war was pretty much over by then, by the time they got over there. It'll be pickin' up surrendered Japs and liberatin' prisoners mostly, Henry said they'd been told. Only it wasn't like that, was it?" The men listened and nodded; they'd all heard the stories. March lifted his glass to his lips, drank deeply and carried on. "They was on a sweep on the edge of jungle terrain. Impossible work for British boys that had never been trained for jungle warfare." The old man shook his head in disgust.

  "You've got that right, Freddie," St. John agreed. "You wait and see what happens to the yanks in Vietnam. They 'aven't got a clue what they're letting themselves in for."

  Tom put another inch of amber liquid into each glass.

  Freddie nodded. "All long grasses and bamboo reeds, I'd imagine. Anyone could lie in wait for you. Any way, they came to a place where the jungle cleared. Jim's patrol walked abreast into that field until one of 'em- Henry couldn't remember who- saw something white poking out of the edge of the trees. A white flag." Again, March shook his old head and looked up to the jaundiced ceiling. "Then they heard their sing-song, nying -tong voices and four nips came out of the un'ergrowth, the one in the middle with a white cloth tied a' top of a stick of bamboo. That was when they made the mistake." The old man sighed deeply. "Henry said that they'd already taken in dozens of prisoners that day an' that was what relaxed 'em. They took their fingers off the trigger for just a moment, lowered their rifles just enough and walked towards the Japs." The old man paused for effect blinking blearily at the others; they all knew the story and he knew that they knew but he didn't care. "That was when they dived face down into the grass and the machine gun opened up on my boy and his friends."

  "Freddie-"

  "Shut your trap, Tommy Phillips!" The old man was on his feet, his fist raised towards Tom's face. "Just you shut the fuck up for once and listen to what they did!" Tom opened his mouth to tell the old man that they all knew, that he shouldn't do this to himself again, to drink his drink and go home to his wife and then closed it again. It would do any good; this was beyond reasoning.

  "My boy was taken down. They got 'im in the thigh. Others was killed instantly. They was the lucky ones."

  They had seen enough from their own wartime excursions to picture the horror of the scene in detail. The writhing agony of the gunshot wounded; Tom would never forget the death rattle of a man shot in the lung; McMahon saw again one of his eighteen year old comrades clutching his throat, gasping for air like a fish out of water, desperately trying to stem the torrent of blood that sprayed between his fingers; they all had their own experiences, their own nightmares to add to the appalling tapestry of that brief period in history.

  "Henry and a few others took cover in time and returned fire but the Japs was well hidden. Sneaky bastards. Opening fire behind a white flag." He spat onto the worn carpet and looked defiantly at St. John. The landlord said nothing. "My boy struggled to get out of the line of fire but when he moved they put another bullet in him- a sniper shot this time- in his other leg. Henry told me that he made a move to go and get 'im but the others held him back. I don' know if that was true but Henry was in a terrible state when he tol' me. I felt fer the boy. He said that Jim did himself proud even in agony as he was. He screamed in pain but no more than you'd expect.”

  The other men heard their own version of that scream- a scream they would each remember for the rest of their days.

  “Henry tol' me that Jim kept screamin' at his men to stay away. He knew what they was tryin' to do, see? Lure out the others so as to get a shot at 'em. They put fourteen bullets in 'im," the old man said with a trace of pride that chilled Tom to the bone. "Fourteen. My boy died in that stinkin' jungle because the Japs hid behin' a white flag."

  "That's terrible, Freddie," Paul Hart whispered and put a hand on the old man's bony shoulder. Freddie shrugged it off and puffed out his chest.

  "M
y boy went down a hero, tellin' his men to stay away even though he was in the mos' terrible pain. He was a hero, I tell you." No-one disagreed. "One thing came of it, though," he said and grinned craftily. "Henry never recognized a white flag a'ter that. He warn't the on'y one either. Dirty little yellow bastards." He turned to Tom again. "Hiroshima? Fuckin' Nagasaki? You wanna know what I think? It weren't enough! Wipe the yellow bastards off the face of the Earth, I say! Every fucking last one of 'em!"

  "Every single one of 'em," Albert Pinchin agreed. He had been silent throughout and had said little all evening but his words now carried some authority. He had been there: Burma, 1945. The others looked to him now; he had sobered considerably, drunk himself sober, as the saying goes. "With respect to Mister March and to his son Jim, what happened to Jim was nothing compared to the other things that they did. Nothing at all."