Alarm Starboard!: A Remarkable True Story of the War at Sea

by Geoffrey Brooke

  There was one more excitement on that short but trying trip. ‘There’s a ship coming straight for us’ said the lookout. Sure enough, on the horizon was a largish merchant vessel, with course set to head us off; she could only be Japanese but we were not making more than five knots and there was no point in running for it. There passed what my tutor at Dartmouth used to call ‘un mauvais quart d’heure’. The ship did not waver. No one spoke. One had the feeling that a hundred eyes were inspecting us through huge telescopes. Then one of the fire officers, who had a pair of binoculars, remarked that she was very high out of the water. Then that she had a list to port and was stopped dead. Eventually one could make out the ripple over a reef that stretched away from her side. She too was aground; yet another victim of the omnipotent Jap ‘air’. A torrent of conversation greeted the news, followed by the mouth organ, drowning the monotonous sound of gently slapping water. Just before dark we sighted the island where the enemy seaplane base was and were glad to leave it astern. Night came down and those off watch curled up for sleep.

  I was on until midnight and found it necessary to consult the compass second by second as Tyke on the tiller, who had ‘smoked’ too much, was hardly capable of holding the course. But fortunately the wind continued favourable and the hours went by in steady progress, with nothing but the creaking of the gear and occasional grunt from a sleeper below. About 05:00 I awoke with a sensation of things taking place; something had been passed a few feet off. It was still dark. All three Chinese were up forward jabbering away and peering into the murk. Their cries increased and they came padding aft, keeping abreast of a shape that was gliding by; as it came level I could make out a sort of lattice work square and something grated on the bottom of the boat. ‘Fishing stakes; they are going to anchor’ said Mackintosh, listening to our friends’ conversation, and in a moment the anchor went rattling down to rouse anyone not already interested. There was a perpetual washing sound from nearby but we could see nothing and resigned ourselves to the wait for dawn which would reveal with cruel clarity whether the course had been right or not. Our Chinese had never been to the Indragiri before and if there was no sign of it we would not know, from featureless land, which way to go. Many hours of bright sunlight would follow. I cursed myself for not having spent time taking an accurate tracing of the chart; but there had been so many people poring over it; I had been keen to get away clear of the others … oh what was the use! I strained yet again into the darkness.

  Then came the first paling of the sky, the forming of vague land shapes, each one as it clarified raising higher one’s hopes, until at last all was clear, distinct and marvellous. We were a shade north of the centre of the river mouth, on each side of which the expected acres of mud and mangroves stretched away into the haze. The land began to close in on each side as we progressed, a large kampong came into view along the north waterfront and soon the junk was alongside a rickety pier. I stepped out under a battery of curious stares.

  A little Eurasian in white suit and topee with a sort of orderly in attendance came forward and introduced himself as the headman of Piggi Rajah. He said in English that one or two food shops could produce a meal for the party, the remainder having been cleaned out by the thousand or so Europeans from Singapore, mostly soldiers, who had passed through. He then showed me a sheet of written orders tacked to the wall of a hut. Signed by a Major Campbell, they were to the effect that we should press on up river, making eventually for Padang on the west coast. There were officers at each of several staging posts who would give further instructions and it was hoped to arrange transport. The first call would be Tembilahan. This was wonderful news, an organisation ready to help us! What little I had heard about central Sumatra concerned a mass of jungle and mountain ranges and I had imagined we were in for an epic foot slog as soon as the river gave out. The idea of this with 60 sailors who probably had not walked two consecutive miles since the war began was not my idea of a skylark. Padang I knew to be a big place facing across the Indian Ocean to Ceylon, whence we would surely be taken off provided we got there before the enemy.

  There was more good news: the headman said that he could provide a small steam launch to tow the junk up the winding river. The other junks had not arrived; we had expected to be behind them on account of the day’s delay and feared they might have run into trouble.

  After the first proper meal since Singapore, much refilling of water bottles and collecting of wanderers who were mostly amusing themselves watching some repulsive mud-fish, we said a grateful goodbye to the village of Piggi Rajah, distributed a little largesse and re-embarked. The steamboat took the junk in tow and puffing indignantly started up river.

  Thick jungle crowded the water’s edge where various birds of the crane variety made dignified retreats at our approach or flapped ponderously off on vast wings. Small groups of wild pig were visible from time to time rooting about on mud stretches and once we thought we saw a fair sized crocodile. The sun went down with the usual tropical suddenness, making black filigree work of the riverside trees until the stars took over in ones and twos. Murmurings from the body of the boat died down and then ceased. All at once I felt very tired and followed suit.

  It seemed five minutes later but was about 23:00 when consciousness forced its way back; the moon was up, outlining a cluster of huts and several small craft moored alongside a landing stage to which we were in the process of making fast. Stepping gingerly on to slippery planks, I was suddenly confronted by a large figure. ‘Hullo’ it said, ‘I’m Captain Gordon, what do you consist of?’ He explained that there were 200 soldiers here and more at the next stop, Rengat; others were at various places up river, all moving on by slow stages. The Dutch were being splendid, arranging somewhere to sleep, scratch meals, and most important of all a couple of motor boats; there was a landing craft from Singapore and all three were engaged up and down river, towing motorless craft full of men. ‘What about money?’ I said, as after paying off our junk I would have little left of Alexander’s 50 guilders. ‘Oh, that’s more or less looked after: you’ll meet Major Campbell soon, he’s organising this stretch. There’s Colonel Warren in charge at Padang … Campbell is one of his officers; there’s a Lieutenant Colonel at Iyer Molek.’

  ‘Have you seen Lieutenant Commander Terry?’ I asked. ‘A large, broad man with a yellow beard?’ ‘Oh yes, he’s been doing great work with one of the motor boats, towing backwards and forwards, but he’s gone on now.’

  Next morning I was looking at a big junk, well over a hundred feet long, anchored downstream, when a hand slapped my shoulder and I turned to the smiling face of Norman Crawley, the RA Captain who had been at the Norfolk’s conference (on the projected raid across the Johore Straits) and with whom I had struck up a quick rapport. We shook each other by the hand slowly. ‘It’s funny, you know’, he said. ‘I have been thinking about you, wondering whether you got away; what happened?’

  And then I heard his story which was one of the best of several outstanding tales of escape. Orders had come through to his battery to lay down their arms, at which they decided to make a break for it. Going down to the harbour, Crawley swam out to this big junk and brought back her dinghy in which the remainder of his battery pulled out. None of the soldiers but himself knew anything about sailing but they cleared the harbour successfully and made for Sumatra, passing an island outpost manned by Australians who called out to be taken along. When these had been embarked they numbered about 70, but fortunately found plenty of rice on board. With Crawley keeping to the Sumatra coast, two or three days saw them at the mouth of the Indragiri.

  One of the other junks from Sinkep arrived at mid-day and it was learnt that the second had made the river mouth. What was more, everyone was off Sinkep so no return trips were necessary. Accordingly I paid off our junk to which we owed so much. The old man stowed the magic box lovingly away and we left them awaiting a tow downstream.

  That evening everyone boarded Crawley’s junk and another boat for
a tow and some time during the early morning we came to Rengat. The anchor splashed into the yellow and now narrowing stream and a voice hailed us from the shore: ‘Who’s that?’. I happened to be on watch. ‘Lieutenant Brooke, a big junk full.’ ‘This is Campbell, you can come ashore for the rest of the night or stay where you are. Probably be going on in barges tomorrow; we can’t get that thing up any further.’

  Daylight found him, a bustling, bullet-headed ‘KOSB’* with bright blue eyes and a sandy moustache, taking details of the various parties. I was to get to know Jock Campbell very well. ‘The next step up river will be in those’—he indicated some flat wooden barges moored astern of two small steamboats. ‘We hope to get on this evening, but it all depends on the Dutch; they are doing wonders, but we are a damn nuisance at a very tricky time and I dare not ask too much. They only have to forget us for a few days’, he paused, ‘and we’re finished.’ He said the next step was to Iyer Molek. ‘There’s a lot of us there, and the transport question is getting awkward. The Dutch have something “on” but it’ll probably be all right. Are there any more coming?’ Someone asked if the Japs were around. ‘They’re not far’ he said. About this time Palembang, further south, was falling to a determined attack by parachutists, but none of us knew this.

  I persuaded an Australian doctor, who appeared to be in funds, to buy me a parasol, which was done to considerable laughter, but the place next to me was much prized when the sun beat down mercilessly on the barges. The troops, already embarking, were in good spirits and when I appeared in songkok with parasol up there were cheers from the soldiers and a chorus of ‘AH together!’ ‘Vast hauling!’ and ‘Turn up there!’, echoes of the previous day when the rattan cable of the junk had parted several times. The little convoy was chugging along in the late afternoon when all of a sudden a flying fox swooped down, a large creature with dog-like face and wingspan of a goose. Shortly there was another, then another. One or two would dive down to have a look at us; more and more appeared, until they were as thick as a flight of birds, not going anywhere in particular but twisting and whirling over our heads. Further on there was a dead pole-like tree and on top a huge monkey which uncurled and stared at us. I sent a .22 bullet spitting into the wood under him, which was rather unkind, and at which he let out a foul imprecation and launched himself like a trapeze artist into the jungle. And then it began to rain. The heavens opened and a deluge began, reminiscent of Penang; everyone except the lucky few under the little stem roof was drenched, and when at 22:00 we bumped alongside a grass verge at Iyer Molek, it was still raining. A little man was waiting with a torch, reflected in enormous puddles. We stumbled out, were led off to some large bams, part of an evacuated mbber factory—and left to sleep.

  The CO of this makeshift camp was Lieutenant Colonel F.J. Dillon, IASC. Always calm and tactful but firm, he sat at a table facing the entrance of the place and wrestled with all manner of problems, assisted by a Major Nicholson—it had been he with the torch. There were several hundred men in the camp, mostly in small parties. One strange little band consisted of a British intelligence officer called Clarke and a handful of Japanese prisoners whom he was escorting, he hoped, to India. I only had a close look at one of them, a fighter pilot who had been shot down (and probably taken unconscious as the Japanese were not allowed to surrender), a pleasant enough, thoughtful young fellow, in contrast to what one had come to expect. None of them gave any trouble. Clarke, nicknamed ‘Tojo’, looked very oriental himself and was another I was to get to know well. (His mother was Japanese; the family had had to leave Japan when the attentions of the secret police had become unbearable, Clarke to join up in Singapore.)

  The last of the Sinkep junk parties arrived that afternoon, bringing the number at the camp up to 600. They had missed the river mouth and spent six hours looking for it in broad daylight. Enemy aircraft had spotted the junk and given the occupants a nasty time investigating but eventually flown off.

  The river had started to flood and navigation further up was considered impracticable. Road transport had been found for our predecessors, who were taken to the railhead at Sawalunto and thence to Padang. There had been no difficulty about this, some dozen lorries being at British disposal, until the day before we arrived when Colonel Dillon had been politely informed that they were required elsewhere. A vague promise of some in the future had been made, and the matter left at that. He looked worried. Rumour of the state of affairs was already round the camp and faces were long. Though there was a large kampong nearby, prices were going up (native boys wanted five guilders, about 3s 6d [17½p], for a duck’s egg) and there was little to occupy the men.

  Word came that the Japs were pushing on to cut the mountain road at a place between us and Padang; the Dutch had decided to withdraw into Fort de Kok about 200 miles north-west and every available vehicle was to be used for the troops and ammunition, particularly the latter, of which they were very short. All local lorries had been commandeered. Colonel Dillon’s load was now heavier than ever, especially as further supplies of food became doubtful. He put me in charge of the cookhouse, which meant the entire food situation. Camp life centred round the cookhouse and it took a little handling. Many unscrupulous individuals came round two and three times so that I arranged for a strict routine: incomplete parties waited until last and any man coming up by himself was usually turned away. This system took time and there was grumbling against the Navy, especially among the Australians who would rather have scrummed. I had words with one officer which ended in his going before the Colonel.

  The third day some lorries arrived and took off the fortunate few at the top of the roster. By the fourth day there was considerable talk among the soldiers that we were wasting vital time and would do better pushing on individually or in very small parties. That afternoon Petty Officer Pickard came to me and reported that about half of the camp had decided to depart that night. I immediately told the Colonel who ordered a parade and made a convincing speech on the necessity, in view of the terrain, to stick together and trust to the Dutch. His words went down well and all except a handful resigned themselves to waiting. I did lose one Able Seaman, a wiry, dark fellow called Armstrong—as it happens he had given me his wallet to keep the party funds in—who decamped that night. We never heard of him again.

  The following day I was put to the test indeed. Some lorries turned up and being now at the top of the list we were preparing to leave when Colonel Dillon said the Naval party could not be spared. Another left in our stead and the men got into an ugly mood, not without reason. They were unimpressed when told it was an honour and I was more than relieved when the situation was grudgingly accepted. There were no lorries the next day. The inaction was very trying and nerves began to fray. I amused myself watching some giant toads in a ditch. The Colonel decided that something had to be done. The river was in flood at about five knots, but any movement would be good for morale and it was arranged with the Dutch for an old steamboat (and the landing craft) to tow the two barges. Accordingly half the camp, which included my party, set off, making good about one knot. The bank could just be seen to be going past! Conditions were even worse than before, there being more bodies to fit in. The river wound and twisted and by nightfall we had probably come four miles in a straight line. The little steamboat sent a shower of sparks high into the air, and we hoped the enemy had no aircraft up. But at least we were on the move.

  Next day we reached a place called Basrha and could hardly believe our eyes; recognised khaki figures were wandering about at the water’s edge. The news was unbelievably good. Several buses had turned up and transported the entire second half of the camp. Some had been taken on already to the next place, Tolek. Iyer Molek camp had been closed. Six hundred men take a lot of moving and another 24 hours slipped by, including a hideous mosquito-ridden night sleeping on stalls in the market place. Hobbs and a soldier cook, who had joined us permanently, set up in the back of a coffee shop, the proprietor of which, a fat Malay, was most
affable. His Chinese cook shook with laughter at Royal Naval methods of cooking and relations were of the best. Later I had some request to make of the headman and, trying to walk on projecting roots, fell into the yellow water, with the humid heat and state of my clothes no bad thing.

  Eventually we were allocated two small open lorries and after much handshaking and thanking the headman, climbed aboard to start a 24-hour drive which for stark, nightmarish madness will never be equalled, at least for me, and I sat in the front with the smallest Ordinary Seaman we had. Those in the back were pulverised, but of course we were going in the right direction, and at some pace. The driver was a well-built though very young Malay—he looked about 16—wearing only a filthy pair of dark blue shorts; and the road nothing but rubble and stones. After some hours, and aching in every limb, I became aware that we were entering the outskirts of a small town and in a numbed dream, climbed down on to the road when we stopped in the main square. This must have been Tolek. The usual line of wooden shops stretched away to the left; on the right was a grey stone building surrounded with grass and trees. Through the open verandah I could see Major Nicholson sitting at a table and went up to him. He smiled. ‘Not so good Brooke, I’m afraid’, he said, pointing to a big lorry ahead of mine which was half full of green wooden boxes. A line of green-uniformed Dutch soldiers and several natives were busy carrying more boxes from the house to a pile in the garden, and from there to the lorry and others out of sight. ‘That’s ammunition going up to Fort de Kok; they’ve got to get it all there tonight, and want our transport. Your two are the only lorries available. There is just a chance, of course, that it will all go into their own, but not much, and there’s no getting by the controleur; he’s the hell of an autocrat—that’s him over there.’ I saw a tall, fair-haired man in a blue silk dressing gown pointing at a pile of ammunition and at the house.