A Dawn Like Thunder (26 page)

One of the soldiers was on his feet, swaying about like a dockside drunk as he tried to keep his balance while he urinated over the tailboard.

If my hands were free
. . . He stared at the muzzle of the soldier's rifle where it rested on the sacks. It would not be there for long. The bloody place would be alive with the bastards if they escaped. But to have a go, even kill a couple before they finished them, as they had finished Nick Rice. The soldier said something and his companion chuckled, then he slumped down again and the rifle moved out of reach.

For an instant more Tucker believed he had imagined it. There was so little feeling in his arms. But he leaned over, his eyes still on the two heads while Napier's fingers found and then fumbled with the tightly knotted cords behind him.

‘That's it, my son.'
Poor little sod.
He could hear Napier's sharp, painful breathing; every movement must be agony for his wounded shoulder, as if the bloody truck wasn't bad enough.

If Sergeant Ochi chose to stop the old Bedford for any reason, or came round to inspect his charges, it might at least spare them the horrors of the military police.

Napier was not going to be able to do it. What little strength he had left would soon fail. His fingers were pulling at the cords as if entirely separate from their owner, who lay much as before with his head against Tucker's leg.

Napier murmured, it sounded more like a sob,
‘One!'
Even through and beyond the pain, Tucker could feel his triumph.

‘That's more like it, sir. Just a couple more.'

Napier's head moved as if he were trying to nod. ‘Never any good at it, you know. Nor wire-splicing. Didn't see the point of it, really.'

Tucker waited, his heart thudding. ‘Right, sir. Whoever heard of an officer soiling his hands with that kind of lark?'

Napier almost laughed. ‘You really are a card. I told you
before.' His fingers lost their grip and he swore quietly. He could not go on.

Tucker sighed. ‘A real bundle of laughs, that's me.'

Napier said softly, ‘Sorry I let you down. Can't quite manage –'

For a split second, Tucker imagined they had run over a landmine or collided head-on with another truck, even though his mind screamed that it was impossible.

It was an explosion, not close but not far away either. There were other sounds too: something breaking or falling, much closer to the truck, which had lurched to a violent halt. Tucker heard things crashing amongst the trees, birds screaming as they flapped away from the violent disturbance. Napier gasped, ‘What was it?'

‘Never mind that. One more go –
come on
, sir.' He felt the sweat pouring down his face and chest. It was too late. Someone had climbed down from the driving cab and the two soldiers were leaning over the tailboard, pointing and shouting, obviously alarmed by the sudden explosion.

Tucker raised his head slightly and saw part of the road behind the truck, dust hovering above it like haze. Maybe it had been a plane crashing. But there was no smoke, nor any smell of fire. Then he saw the ox wagon, the one they had frightened off the road. It was standing quite still, as if the man in charge had not decided what to do.

Ochi's unmistakable voice was shouting angrily, and he saw the man by the wagon wave a stick, as if to point out that he had no room to turn or move aside to allow the truck to reverse along the track.

Napier whispered,
‘Three!'

Tucker moved his hands very carefully, the sudden pain almost unnoticed as he realized what Napier had managed to do. The sergeant was just below the tailboard, and when he shouted again the truck began to reverse, no doubt
intending to force the wagon off the road. What was the point, Tucker wondered. Why not drive on? The man with the wagon was waving his stick again, jabbering, pleading perhaps. He turned in a shaft of dusty sunlight, and Tucker felt a hand tighten on his heart.

He whispered to Napier, ‘I don't believe it. It's the old bloke, sir – the village headman. Mango's dad.' It made no sense. He saw Ochi turn to glare at his men, his face contorted with fury. Tucker remembered the skeletal doctor. A savage, he had called him.

He whispered urgently, ‘Stay here an' lie doggo! It's now or bloody never!' He gripped the sacks and knew that Napier was reaching out to him with one hand. To wish him luck, to prevent him from leaving?

None of it mattered. Just his legs and his hands. If they gave out now . . .

With a great heave he hurled himself over the sacks, and he had a rifle in his hands almost without knowing how it had got there. There was no time to discover how it worked, or even if it had one up the spout. The rifle shone in the sunlight like a club, smashing the face of one of the soldiers to a bloody pulp, knocking him bodily out of the truck. The engine was roaring and grinding, so that nobody even heard his short, frantic scream as the rearmost wheel rolled over him. The other soldier, the one he had disarmed, had vaulted over the tailboard and was shouting for assistance.

Tucker jerked the rifle-bolt and heard a bullet click into place. If there was a safety-catch, it made no difference now. He almost fell as he dropped down to the road. Ochi was standing beside the crushed body near the truck's wheels, a pistol in one hand while he drew, so unhurriedly that it seemed like a film in slow motion, the heavy sword that hung from his belt. The last thing Nick Rice had seen on earth.

The old Bedford had stopped, and in the silence it seemed as though he had suddenly gone completely deaf. All Ochi had to do was pull the trigger, and yet he did not move.

Tucker saw a movement from the trees, and then another. There was a glint of weapons, too. It must be more Japs, and he couldn't even get back to Napier, comfort him, prepare him . . .

The men who stepped on to the road were filthy, their camouflaged uniforms stained and torn as if they had been living in ditches and swamps for a long time.

Tucker raised the rifle very slightly to waist level, the muzzle towards the motionless Sergeant Ochi.

One ragged figure, a Sten-gun carried loosely in the crook of his arm, snapped, ‘
Easy
, now! Just lower the bloody thing, will you?'

Tucker's mind almost cracked. To hear the level, educated voice coming from such a scarecrow: it could have been one of his own officers. The Sten-gun jerked slightly, and more men spread out across the road.

The voice continued calmly, ‘We're a bit pushed for time, old son. I'm Percy Townsend, Gurkha Rifles.' His free hand gestured to the roadside, while the Sten remained quite still. ‘And this reprobate is Teddy, our illustrious sapper from the Royal Engineers. I expect you heard his handiwork just now, what?'

Tucker said nothing, barely able to grapple with it.
Chindits.

‘We blew the bridge over yonder. Afraid a Jap staff-car went up with it.' He and the sapper were grinning like conspirators. ‘Now, if you'd been any closer behind it . . .' He shrugged. ‘No need to elaborate.'

Somebody called, ‘There's rice on the truck, sir!'

‘Good. Bring as much as we can carry.' To Tucker
he said, ‘You must be one of the naval types we heard about.'

Teddy, the sapper, held out a tin of cigarettes. ‘I thought there were three of you?'

Tucker looked at the ground. It had only just stopped moving. ‘They beheaded one. My officer's in the truck. He's badly hurt.'

He saw their quick exchange of glances and exclaimed, ‘
I'm not leaving him!
Not after what he's been through!'

They studied his bruised face and lacerated wrists, then the Gurkha officer said, ‘You've not done too badly yourself.'

Tucker felt someone beside him and turned as the old headman put his arms around his shoulders.

‘They kill my son! He was your friend.'

For the first time Tucker was aware that there were other Burmese present. Some with Lee-Enfield rifles, some armed only with knives and crude spears. They were all victims now. He said, ‘I was so sorry about your boy. I am proud he was my friend.'

What would happen now to this man and his companions? How might they be judged? Guerrillas? Terrorists? Patriots?

Townsend watched his Gurkhas while they disarmed Ochi and the other two Japanese. Matted and wild-looking they might be, but Tucker recognized the tough, disciplined little soldiers underneath. To their officer he remarked, ‘You're lucky, sir, to have men like these.'

Townsend smiled. ‘Time to move,
chop, chop!
'

Orders were being passed and Tucker asked, ‘Where are we off to, sir?'

‘A safe place. It will be hard going, I'm afraid. But after that they'll come and pick us up.'

Tucker did not ask who
they
were, and he guessed that
this filthy, well-spoken officer, would not have told him anyway.

Townsend said, ‘Don't worry. We'll get you out of here.' He must have recognized the desperation in Tucker's face. ‘And your travelling companion, too.'

As Tucker climbed back on to the truck, from which two Gurkhas were already unloading sacks of rice, Townsend turned to the sapper named Teddy and said, ‘Must seem like a bloody miracle to them. Poor devils, brave as tigers, but they don't have a clue what it's all about, do they?'

They both laughed, their cigarette smoke drifting above them. Like the laughter, it seemed unreal.

Tucker crawled over to Napier, and raised his shoulders very carefully. Napier was staring at the Gurkhas, one of whom grinned at him as if it was all perfectly normal. ‘Where – where are we going? What's happening, for God's sake?'

Tucker was glad Napier could not see his face, or the emotion that was ripping him apart. ‘I think they're taking us out of here, sir.'

Napier allowed himself to be lifted from the truck, while the soldiers stopped work to watch. He said, ‘But for them . . .'

Tucker glanced once towards the Japanese, but they had been tied up and were already being dragged through the trees by the old headman's people. He felt no pity, only disgust and hatred.

Let them pray for death before the end.
It was all he could think of. He hoisted Napier over his shoulder. There was not a whisper of complaint from him, no murmur of pain. All he said was, ‘Together.'

For Tucker, it was the only reward he needed.

AFTER THEIR STUMBLING
arrival on board the steam tug
Success
, the modest lighting in the master's small cabin seemed blinding. Apart from an occasional guiding hand when they were in danger of falling over some winch or coiled wire cables, they could have been invisible. Nobody spoke, and in the darkness it was impossible to see any expression, or to gauge the extent of their welcome. Villiers sat down gingerly on a battered bench seat, and looked at a litter of plates and cups mingled with various charts, and a long, old-fashioned telescope. He said, ‘I've known this tug since I was a little boy. Built in England. She was twice as powerful as anything else when she was new.'

Ross watched him.
There it was again.
Villiers was searching for something, trying to identify the events which had changed his life. He asked, ‘What's Richard Tsao like? And where is he, I wonder?'

‘I think he was up in the wheelhouse with the master.' Villiers frowned. ‘
Like?
Just an ordinary sort of chap. Hard-working, I believe.' He smiled ruefully. ‘You had to be that, above all else.' Ross recalled what the girl had told him of the powerful Villiers family.

Villiers was saying, ‘Must be in his middle or late
thirties now. He's taking a hell of a risk, so he must be pretty eager to help.'

Ross nodded.
So are we.
‘Our information points to a lack of trust between the Japanese and their German allies. The sooner we get to the bottom of it, the better.' He leaned back against a cupboard and listened to the engine's powerful beat, felt the easy roll of the hull, which was built like a battleship. With luck, they would reach Singapore in two days. After that, everything would depend on Richard Tsao.

The cabin door opened, and Ross studied the newcomer with interest. Late thirties, perhaps, but looked older. His carefully combed black hair was edged with grey, like frost, and although he was casually dressed in a well-worn reefer jacket he had an air of authority, and a confidence which Ross had recognized in other men who risked their lives without question.

Villiers scrambled to his feet and thrust out his hand. ‘Richard Tsao! I can barely believe it, after all this time!'

Tsao shook hands, his dark eyes examining the youthful lieutenant as if searching for something. He said, ‘It seemed the right way for us to meet.' He gave the merest hint of a smile. ‘
Success
has a suitable ring to it!' He turned to Ross. Again the scrutiny, calm and unhurried.

‘Lieutenant-Commander James Ross. I have read about you.' He nodded. ‘I am pleased you decided to come.' He opened a pack of cigarettes and offered them automatically. To give himself time. To decide how much to divulge. Richard Tsao was not what Ross had expected. Even when he had spoken with Villiers, the son of his formidable late employer, there had been no attempt to ingratiate himself, as might be usual in one who was likely to ask for favours or rewards for what he was doing. The exact opposite. With Villiers, he had more the air of a potential employer himself
than that of a man who had survived the Japanese invasion by working under their supervision.

Tsao said, ‘We shall be off Kalang tomorrow. We might be boarded by the inshore patrols. It is not uncommon.' He bobbed his head. ‘This vessel has a secure place where you can be concealed. It was constructed originally for smuggling refugees out of Singapore and Western Malaya, when many believed that the Japanese victory would soon be reversed. But it was not to happen.' He said it without bitterness, without emotion of any kind. Something which he had learned to contain under his new masters, Ross thought. ‘The next day, all being well, we will reach Singapore Strait and enter Keppel Harbour, where we will take on fuel.' He stabbed the air with his cigarette and watched the smoke being drawn into a ventilator. ‘Coal can be a nuisance, but it does have an advantage in that we will be undisturbed.'