The Glass Palace (61 page)

Minutes later, with a blast that was like a moving wall of sound, the Japanese heavy artillery opened up. The first shells went skimming over the tops of the trees, sending down showers of leaves and small branches. But then, slowly, the explosions began to move in their direction. The earth shook so violently as to send the water at the bottom of the trench shooting into their faces. Arjun saw a fifty-foot rubber tree rising gracefully from the earth and jumping several feet into the air before somersaulting towards them. They flattened themselves at the bottom of the trench just in time to get out of its way.

The bombardment continued without a break for hours.

Manju was in a deep sleep when Neel shook her awake. She rolled over, in a daze. It seemed as though weeks had gone by since she had last slept. Jaya was a colicky baby and often cried for hours. Nothing would stop her once she started. Even Woodward's Gripe Water had little effect: a tablespoonful would send her into a light doze but an hour or two later she'd be up again, crying harder than ever.

Manju glanced at Jaya's crib and saw that she was still asleep. She rubbed her eyes and turned away from Neel. She could not disguise her annoyance at being disturbed. ‘What is it?' she said. ‘Why did you wake me up?'

‘I thought you'd want to know . . .'

‘What?'

‘The Japanese have entered the war.'

‘Oh?' She still could not understand what this had to do with her being roused from her sleep.

‘They've invaded Malaya.'

‘Malaya?' Now everything was suddenly clear. She sat up. ‘Arjun? Dinu? Is there any news?'

‘No.' Neel shook his head. ‘Nothing directly. But the radio said something about the 11th Division being involved in the fighting. Isn't that Arjun's division?'

She'd had a letter from Arjun just last week. He hadn't said very much about himself—just that he was well and thinking of her. Mostly, he'd asked about Jaya and her own health. He'd also mentioned that he'd met Dinu and he was fine— Dolly had been glad to hear that.

‘Do you still have Arjun's letter?' Neel asked.

‘Yes.' Manju jumped out of bed and went to fetch the letter.

‘Does it say anything about his division?' Neel said.

The numeral 11 leapt at her almost at once, from the folds of the page. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘That's his division.' She looked at her husband and her eyes filled with tears.

Neel put his arm round her shoulders and held her tight. ‘There's no reason to worry,' he said. ‘As far as I can make out the 11th Division is headquartered very close to Morningside. Dinu will let us know what's going on.'
Then the baby woke up. Now, for the first time, Manju was grateful for Jaya's cantankerousness. Her ceaseless crying left her with no time to think of anything else.

Later that evening they were paid a visit by an eminent member of the Indian community in Rangoon—a lawyer by the name of Sahibzada Badruddin Khan. It so happened that the whole family was at home when the visitor dropped by.

Mr Khan was worried and he had come to give them some news. He had attended a meeting of some of the city's most prominent Indians. They had decided to form a Refugee Evacuation Committee. It was felt that in the event of a Japanese advance into Burma the Indian population would be vulnerable on two fronts—they would be defenceless against hostile sections of the Burmese public and, what was more, as subjects of the British Empire, they would be treated as enemy aliens by the Japanese. Many members of the community had expressed fears of a coming catastrophe: the committee's intentions were to get as many Indians out of Burma as possible.

Rajkumar was amazed to learn of these measures. He was in an optimistic mood, despite the recent news. He had just discovered that a friend of his had secured a contract for a long stretch of the Burma–China road. He was now absolutely confident that he would be able to sell his stocks of timber at exactly the kind of price he had been hoping for.

‘What?' Rajkumar broke into a disbelieving laugh. ‘You mean you people are going to run away from Burma—because the Japanese have invaded Malaya?'

‘Well, yes. People feel . . .'

‘Nonsense, Khan.' Rajkumar slapped his friend on the back.

‘You shouldn't be taken in by these scaremongers. Malaya's a long way from here.'

‘Still,' said Mr Khan, ‘there's nothing wrong with being prepared—especially where there are women and children involved . . .'

Rajkumar shrugged. ‘Well, Khan, you must do what you think best. But as for myself I think this is a great opportunity.'

‘Opportunity!' Mr Khan raised an eyebrow. ‘How so?'

‘There's no mystery to it, Khan. With America in the war, there'll be more money for defence preparations. Burma is crucial to the survival of the Chinese Government in Chungking: the north–south road will be their main supply line. I'm willing to bet that the road is going to be built faster than anyone ever expected.'

‘And if there's an attack?'

Rajkumar shrugged. ‘It's a question of nerve, Khan. I can understand why you'd want to leave. But for us it would be too soon. I've spent a long time preparing for this and I am not going to leave now.'

Manju was hugely reassured by Rajkumar's words. It was a great comfort to know that she did not have to think about going anywhere right now. Coping with Jaya was hard enough at home: she could not begin to imagine what it would be like in less favourable circumstances.

In the morning, a runner brought a message to Arjun's trench. It was from battalion headquarters: they were to fall back on the Asoon line—a string of defensive fortifications along a river, a few miles down the road. When Arjun gave the order to move there was a muted cheer. He felt like joining in himself—anything would be better than staying pinned in that trench.

They made their way through the plantation in good order but when they reached the road it became clear that the withdrawal was turning quickly into a headlong retreat. The men began to show signs of apprehension as truck after truck passed them by, packed with troops from other units. Arjun stayed with them long enough to see them into a truck and then he jumped into a jeep with Hardy.

‘Yaar, did you hear?' Hardy said under his breath.

‘What?'

‘The Japs have sunk the
Prince of Wales
and the
Repulse
.'

‘Impossible.' Arjun looked at him in disbelief. These were two of the most powerful battleships ever made, the pride of the British navy. ‘It can't be true.'

‘It
is
true—I ran into Kumar; he told me.' Suddenly a gleeful grin lit up his face. ‘I can't wait to tell Pearson: I want to see the look on that bastard's face . . .'

‘Hardy,' Arjun shouted, ‘have you gone mad?'

‘Why?'

‘Have you forgotten that those ships were here to defend us? We're all on the same side, Hardy. A Jap bullet can't pick between you and Pearson.'

Hardy gave him a startled glance, and for a moment they looked at each other in mutual bewilderment. ‘You're right,' said Hardy. ‘Of course. But you know . . .'

‘Let's drop it,' Arjun said quickly.

When they reached the Asoon river, the Japanese artillery fell unaccountably silent. Grateful for the respite, the 1/1 Jats took up positions beside the road, with their backs to the river. At this point, the north–south highway ran along a raised embankment, with thick stands of rubber on either side, leading as far as the eye could see. The whole battalion was now concentrated in one place, positioned to defend the approaches to the river. Their vehicles were lined up off the road, along the slopes of the embankment.

Arjun saw Hardy stepping out on the road and went to join him. Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland was just a few paces away, at the battalion's temporary command post. He was with Captain Pearson, who was fumbling with a map case.

Arjun stopped in the middle of the road to confer with Hardy. ‘Why do you think they've stopped shelling?' he said.

‘They seem to hold back at times,' Hardy said. ‘It's hard to say why.'

‘You don't think it's because their own armour is moving up, do you?'

Hardy scoffed at this. ‘What armour? None of us has any tanks—neither them nor us. This isn't tank country.'

‘That's what we were told. But . . .' Somewhere in the
distance there was a rumbling sound. They both spun about on their heels to look down the road. It was now almost sunset. The clouds had cleared briefly and the sky had turned bright scarlet. The highway ran straight for a couple of hundred yards before disappearing around a bend: rubber trees rose above it on either side, almost coming together at the top to form an arch. The road was empty: there was nothing ahead.

Hardy breathed a sigh of relief. ‘That gave me a fright . . .' He raised his sleeve to his forehead. ‘I told you—this isn't tank country: that's the one thing we can be sure of, thank God.'

A moment later, with a great grinding of its metal treads, a tank turned the corner. On top of the turret, silhouetted against the sky, was a gunner's helmeted head. The turret swivelled in their direction until its gun became a single circular eye. Then the tank shuddered and its hollow eye turned a blazing red. At the bottom of the embankment, a petrol tank exploded and a half-ton truck did a little hop and burst into flames.

For an instant Arjun stood his ground. Nothing in his training had prepared him for this. A dim recollection of unfinished business urged him to turn and run back down the road, to his company, to rally them into throwing up the wall of fire that the CO had talked about at the last briefing. But the CO had said categorically that there would be no tanks— and anyway, the CO was gone now, rolling down the side of the embankment, along with Captain Pearson. On both sides of the highway, men were scattering into the plantation, running for cover.

‘Run, Arjun!' The voice was Hardy's, and it jolted him awake. ‘Run, run.'

He was stranded in the middle of the road, like a startled deer, and the first tank was almost upon him, so close that he could see the eyes of the man in the turret, darkened by a thick pair of goggles. He jumped, throwing himself over the side of the embankment, lunging sidewise to clear the CO's burning jeep. Then he picked himself up and ran for the trees:
suddenly he was inside a long tunnel of greenery, his feet cushioned by a carpet of fallen leaves.

The lucidity that had possessed him momentarily as he was standing in the middle of the road had vanished now. Its place was taken by a blind, unseeing urgency. It was quite possible that he was heading straight towards a nest of Japanese guns. But even if he had known that to be so he would not have been able to stop himself. It was as though his breath and his blood had fused together to pound at his brain in unison, urging him on, pushing him to run in this direction.

He ran several yards without stopping. Then, leaning against a tree trunk, he turned, panting, to look back: the trees fell into a sightline at the end of which a small stretch of road was clearly visible, enclosed in a circular frame, as though he were looking through a telescope. He saw tank after tank rolling down the highway. By the sides of the embankment lay the vehicles of the 1/1 Jats. Some were upturned and some were on fire.

The sight was beyond comprehension. He could find no way of explaining what had happened, even to himself. Was this what was meant by the phrase ‘put to rout'—this welter of fear and urgency and shame; this chaotic sensation of collapse in one's head, as though the scaffolding of responses implanted by years of training had buckled and fallen in?

Arjun had a sudden aching vision of their battalion's headquarters in Saharanpur: he recalled the building they called ‘the Nursery'—the long, low bungalow in which the officers' mess was housed. He thought of the heavy, gilt-framed paintings that hung on its walls, along with the mounted heads of buffalo and nilgai; the assegais, scimitars and feathered spears that his predecessors had brought back as trophies from Africa, Mesopotamia and Burma. He had learnt to think of this as home, and the battalion as his extended family—a clan that tied a thousand men together in a pyramid of platoons and companies. How was it possible that this centuries-old structure could break like an egg-shell, at one sharp blow—and that too, in this unlikeliest of battlefields, a forest planted by
businessmen? Was the fault his own? Was it true then, what the older Englishmen said, that Indians would destroy the army if they became officers? This at least was beyond doubt: as a fighting unit the 1/1 Jats no longer existed. Every man in the battalion would now have to fend for himself.