A Dawn Like Thunder (24 page)

It was a short walk to the end of the corridor, but by the time they had reached another guarded door they were both sweating. Tucker noticed dark stains along the floor, and guessed they were his own blood when he had been dragged here. But he could recall none of it.

It was, or had been, some sort of office. There were a few chairs and an empty table, and a view through an opened window of what looked like a parade ground, iron-hard earth, stamped or flattened down over the years to defy even monsoon rain. There were logs scattered at one side of it, and a large blackened area as if there had been fires at one time. A few soldiers were standing about, and beyond them more ragged figures like the R.A.M.C. doctor named Newton.
They cannot walk
, he had said.

Sergeant Ochi shouted, ‘Officer
sit
!' The cane moved again and came to rest on Tucker's arm. ‘You are non . . . commissioned . . . rank. You stand!'

Tucker bobbed his head after making Napier as comfortable as he could. ‘Yes, sergeant.' As their eyes met, he added to himself,
you fat-gutted pig!

Another door was opened by an unseen soldier and an officer Tucker assumed to be Captain Nishida entered. After returning Ochi's salute, he seated himself very carefully on the chair opposite Napier. Tucker thought he was the neatest person he had ever laid eyes on. Very slim, probably in his twenties, and dressed in such a perfectly fitted uniform that the open shirt collar looked as if it had been pressed over the tunic with an iron. He ignored Tucker and asked simply, ‘What were you doing here?'

Napier steadied himself against the chair-back. ‘I can give you my name, rank and number. According to International Law . . .'

Nishida raised one hand. He seemed neither angry nor particularly hostile. ‘Do not waste time. The laws are not made by God, and they are broken by men. You have no place of safety hiding behind such . . .' he hesitated and searched for a word. ‘Futile deceptions.'

Napier said, ‘I do not understand.'

Sergeant Ochi unrolled a blanket on the table. Napier's silver flask, some papers, one of the revolvers and, to Tucker's fury and dismay, his own small oilskin pouch with all the rest.

‘You are an officer. You must know what you were doing. You are terrorists, saboteurs, cowards, is that not so?' He did not wait for an answer, but pushed something across the table and watched Napier's reaction with mild interest. ‘What is this?'

Napier said, ‘A compass.'

Tucker swayed forward and saw the guards raise their rifles instantly. It had to be Rice's compass; he and Napier had buried theirs. Rice must have used it to buy cigarettes. He tried not to recall the boy's burned and mutilated body, left like so much rubbish on the track.

Napier said steadily, ‘I did my duty.'

Nishida touched his chin. ‘Nippon soldier never surrender. Why did you?'

Napier shrugged and winced. ‘I was injured. There was no choice.' He added hoarsely, ‘Your men murdered that helpless boy.'

‘I have my duty also. He was known to be helping you. He refused to co-operate.'

‘So you killed him.'

‘Tell me again. What were you doing? How did you blow up the ship?'

Napier asked, ‘Can I have something to drink, please?'

‘Certainly. Presently. I know you were brought by submarine. I know also that the submarine was destroyed, yes? But how did you sink the ship? What kind of explosive, that kind of matter?'

Napier shook his head. ‘It's no use.'

Nishida rapped out three words, and two of his men seized Napier's arms and dragged him on to his back on the floor.

Tucker lunged forward to help him, but two bayonets pricked his chest. The soldiers' intent faces showed no reluctance; they wanted to kill him.

Napier cried out to him, ‘I won't! Tell them I didn't!'

Tucker nodded heavily, and felt the bayonets' unwavering touch. Napier was losing his strength; one of the soldiers was kneeling on his torn shoulder while the others held his arms and legs. Ochi waited while one soldier pinched Napier's nostrils and then, with obvious concentration, he began to pour a can of water into Napier's mouth.

Tucker had seen men drown before, by accident or design. It made little difference if you did not have the strength to fight it.

Napier was choking, his eyes staring wildly while Ochi continued to pour from the can.

Tucker glanced desperately at Captain Nishida. ‘Stop them!'

But Nishida had opened the oilskin pouch and was studying the little photograph. He looked up. ‘Wife? Soldier-woman?'

Tucker wanted to scream, to kill him. Evie in her clippie's uniform, a soldier-woman.

A man appeared in the doorway and muttered to his captain. Nishida raised his hand. ‘Enough! Put him in the chair!'

Napier was somehow still alive, choking and retching, water pouring from his mouth.

Nishida looked at the raised bayonets and they were instantly withdrawn.

As Ochi gripped Napier's hair and dragged his head up to revive him, he said to Tucker, ‘My men have found one of the diving suits. The rest is for someone else to decide.' He turned towards Napier and raised his voice. ‘You are stupid, not brave. You will be taken to Rangoon where the Kempeti will attend to you.'

Tucker said bluntly, ‘To be killed, is that what you mean?'

‘Eventually, yes. I think you will pray for death for a long while!' He handed the oilskin pouch to Tucker. ‘Brave woman go fight for her men!'

Tucker carried Napier back to their original cell where, surprisingly, a small amount of rice and tea was brought for them.

Napier said between fierce bouts of coughing, ‘They should have done for me.'

Tucker said, ‘We came together. We'll stick that way.' He pushed the rice-bowl on to his lap. ‘My guess is we'll be moved today.' He tried to smile. ‘The room's been booked by another guest!'

He saw Napier's head nod with exhaustion. Poor little bugger, he thought, you've just about had it, haven't you?

He watched the sunshine and tensed as he heard the sound of marching feet. Very quietly, he climbed on to the only stool and gripped the window-bars to support himself. There was a squad of soldiers in two lines in the compound, a firing party, perhaps. Then he saw Nishida and the squat sergeant, standing in the shade of an overhanging tree.

Tucker touched the oilskin pouch in his pocket.
She was with him.
Now two soldiers were dragging an inert shape across the beaten ground. He knew immediately that it was Nick Rice. Even at this distance he could see the blood on his face, the way he was groping at the soldiers as if he could not see, as if he did not know what was happening.

Napier sensed the silence. ‘What's going on?'

Tucker made himself watch as they dragged Rice to one of the abandoned logs and threw him across it. The onlookers, in ragged scraps of khaki, did not even appear to notice. They were beyond caring, beyond every human emotion.

Only then did Rice show some sign of agitation, as he was rolled on to his back with his shoulders across the log. Sergeant Ochi strode into the sunshine and stood over him.

Tucker watched, nauseated, but rendered helpless as if he had been drugged.

The big sword rose above the sergeant's head and shoulders, and seemed to remain motionless in the bright sunshine like glass. Then it dropped.

The black stain Tucker had noticed earlier had not been from fires. It was blood.

He made himself kneel by Napier's side, and without speaking he took his hand. After a long time he said, ‘It was Rice, sir. They just killed him.' He sounded very calm. ‘I don't know any proper prayers . . .'

Napier stared luminously at him; at his pain and his anger.

‘I'll say one for the two of us.'

It was all they had left.

THE LAUNCH TURNED
in a wide arc and headed directly towards the big submarine depot-ship, which was moored bows-on to the shore. The two passengers, dressed in light khaki drill with only their shoulder-straps giving any display of rank, watched the passing array of troopships, oilers and fleet escorts in silence. Ross was not sure how he felt: there was, he thought, a certain relief that he was doing something again, rather than merely supervising others. He had noticed the marked change in his companion during the last frantic preparations for the mission to Singapore. Villiers seemed strangely relaxed, with none of the expected signs of strain or anxiety. Like somebody anticipating a return home after long absence.

They would be taking passage in the submarine
Tybalt
, the outboard boat of the only pair remaining alongside the depot-ship. She was a sister boat of
Turquoise
, a grim reminder, if one was needed. Her skipper had been a close friend of Bob Jessop, so it was likely that their presence aboard might be regarded as yet another unnecessary risk factor.

The dapper Brigadier Davis, who had attended the last briefing before taking off for Bombay and eventually
London, had been definite about it. ‘Of course there are
risks
, gentlemen. Four years of war have proved that repeatedly. This Richard Tsao is trustworthy, according to our Intelligence sources, but only up to a point. If he has information of true value, the risks will be justified. If not, Mr Tsao can be given to the Japs with my blessing!'

Ross looked at Villiers. This morning, while they had been waiting to meet Captain Pryce and the brigadier, he had said quite suddenly, ‘I had another letter.'

Ross did not need to be told from whom. He had been aware of Villiers' anxiety during that last dinner with Colonel Mackenzie, when the girl had waited to drive him back to the unit H.Q. When he had held her and they had kissed. Now, more like a dream than ever. But he had sensed that Villiers had been putting up a brave front throughout the meal, and now the reason was very clear.

‘She wants to break it off, Jamie. She was hoping for a divorce, but now she thinks it's impossible. Even her father seems to think she should stick with Sinclair.' He had hesitated. ‘She's afraid of him, you see.'

‘And what about you? Do you still feel the same?' Villiers nodded, and had looked very young and vulnerable. No wonder she had fallen for him. ‘I love her. I can't think of anybody else.'

Sinclair was not being sent to England after all. Not yet, anyway, and it seemed increasingly possible that Pryce might want to use his particular skills if the Singapore venture proved to be more than a red herring.

Nor did Sinclair improve on acquaintance. He had been in the mess one evening when somebody was reading an item in the newspaper aloud: some old dear being interviewed about war-time marriages. Sinclair had interrupted coldly, ‘What the hell does a happy marriage have to do with it? These sentimental fools make me want to puke. A
marriage is either suitable or it is not. Everything else is a tedious obstacle.'

A newcomer to the mess had asked jovially, ‘Doesn't a woman have any point of view in this, Major?'

Sinclair had stared through him. ‘If you think like that, any woman would walk right over
you
! You really are pathetic!' Then he had stalked out of the mess. Ross had been glad that Villiers had not been present. It would have confirmed his worst fears.

Villiers said with a quiet intensity, ‘If he lays a hand on her, I'll kill him.'

Ross touched his arm as the towering shadow of the depot-ship shut out the sunlight. ‘Take it easy. We'll talk about it later, if you like.'

Villiers said tightly, ‘Yes. I
would
like.'

The launch's wash surged against the outboard submarine's saddle-tank and Ross found himself thinking of
Turquoise.
What it must have been like for Mike Tucker and the chariot's crew. Perhaps Brigadier Davis was right to dismiss so casually the conventional standards of war. Why should they matter? What was the difference between bombing a town or city from the sky, regardless of the innocent who suffered, and torturing a man to death to obtain vital information for the survival of your country?

But he was not convinced. There were always standards, no matter which side you were on. Man must have the last word. Only the bomb and the torpedo were impartial, indifferent.

It was a different sort of war in the jungles of Burma: no wonder the famous Fourteenth Army was bitterly called ‘the Forgotten Army' by the troops who fought each day against an enemy so ruthless that they had themselves become equally hard. No prisoners, no quarter, no mercy.
Their war was more like a savage struggle to stamp out a terrible disease than an effort to defeat human beings.

Have we come to that?

They crossed the two submarines and ran lightly up the long accommodation-ladder where the O.O.D. was waiting to receive them. Ross imagined he could feel their eyes watching them.
Where to this time? What are the odds on getting away with it?

He thought of the girl's nearness in the car, the break in her voice when she had opened the little case and realized it contained his Victoria Cross.

Of course it mattered. Lives mattered; faith mattered; hope and decency mattered. Davis was wrong if he believed otherwise.

At the top of the ladder they exchanged salutes, and Ross found himself glancing at the nearest troopship, its rigging adorned with khaki clothing hung out to dry.

Was there someone aboard her, or the next one beyond, who had a Wren officer's hat-badge hidden away, a souvenir, or ‘trophy' as Guest had put it, to remind him of assault and murder? Could you ever live with it? Perhaps even take pleasure in a girl's dying appeals?

He touched his pocket, wishing he had something Victoria had held or used. Like Mike Tucker with his photograph.

The O.O.D. said, ‘The Commodore, Submarines will see you now, sir.' Ross stared up at the sky. Clouding over. All the better for what they must do.