Small Island (39 page)

I caught sight of the top of a head first. Suddenly Maxi came back to life. ‘Nagas,’ he shouted, and jumped up like a jack-in-the-box. Those three brown skinny natives were not surprised at seeing us. They knew we were there. Wily lot. Euphoria had Maxi negotiating (sign language). The blanket, four packs of limp cigarettes, a few rupees, and these toothless old men were happy to lead us back to the army camp.

The army CO looked surprisingly relieved when we got there. ‘Thought I’d have to send someone out to find you. You RAF chaps aren’t cut out for combat,’ he wanted us to know. Maxi was quietly furious – jaw tight as a cage. Until the CO handed us a beer each. We could hardly believe it. Christmas in May? ‘Good news,’ he told us. ‘The war with the Germans is over. Hitler’s dead.’ Poured himself a whisky from an almost-full bottle. ‘They’ll be sending us everything they’ve got now.’ Lifted up his generous glassful and told Maxi and me, ‘Didn’t fancy your chances against that Jap patrol. But thank God. Maybe you fellows aren’t such clots after all. Cheers.’

Thirty-seven

Bernard

It was a relief for everyone to know loved ones back home were now safe. Free from those unimaginable things we heard the Nazis were throwing at them – doodlebugs, rockets. I stopped picturing Queenie huddling in the shelter, with Pa under the bed. Brought her out into the light again. Standing by the kitchen stove reaching up into the cupboard for flour or salt. Her blouse pulling taut against her breasts. Her fair hair flopping in front of her eyes before she pushes it behind her ear where it curls obedient as thread. Everyone cheered at the war in Europe’s end. Every back felt a pat on it. A job well done. But none of that made our long road ahead feel any shorter. It would take us years to wrest back Burma from those little yellow men. Everyone agreed with me. Inch by inch we’d have to go. Just look at the Yanks in the Pacific – island by island, and each battle bloodier than the last. Maxi wagered me two years. I’m not a betting man, I told him. Four, some other chaps said. While the thought of ‘never’ dulled the eyes of some.

So the Japs’ sudden surrender was a startling shock to all. I had a dose of dysentery. I’d been ordered by the MO that day to hold on to an enema. Seven hours he said I was to keep it warm. Only had it in two when Maxi’s face appeared at the basha door.

‘Have you heard the news, Pop?’

I told him to go away. The chaps tried those tricks all the time. I expected some airman to come in and slowly pour his tiffin tea into a mug in a deliberate, long trickle – an old ruse. Auto-suggestion that saw the fainthearts biting their lips and crossing their legs. Only those with an iron will and the stamina of a bull could stay the distance with this particular medicine. I was determined to be one of them.

‘The Japs have surrendered,’ Maxi informed me.

‘Pull the other one,’ I told him. Everyone knows Japs don’t surrender.

But his face lit like he’d won the pools. ‘Honest, it’s God’s truth,’ he said.

Shock had me running straight for a thunderbox, which gave Maxi a laugh.

News of the new-fangled bomb had everyone curious. They all wanted to know what I knew – that bit older, you see. But there was little I could tell them. Even the officers were left scratching their heads. Arguing over what an atom bomb could be. They were clueless. But the Japs surrendering spoke louder than any top-brass explanation. All agreed, it was God’s own weapon if it could make the yellow peril turn tail and run.

So the war was over! A day’s holiday from duty with three days’ beer ration. Maxi, after several beers, gathered everyone round to show them his peace-time plans for the rabbit farm. Painted it on an old parachute slung from a tree. Two bunnies, a cage and several leaping pounds signs. ‘One male and one female, that’s all you need,’ he yelled, ‘because you know what they breed like?’

‘Rabbits!’ came the drunken response.

Maxi led the whole camp practically in a rousing chorus of ‘Run Rabbit Run’. Said it was to be the company song. Grabbed me next. ‘And Pop here is Chief Bunny.’ Got everyone laughing. ‘But there’s rabbit pie for you all when we get home,’ he shouted. Couldn’t help thinking he wasn’t taking this whole rabbit-farm venture seriously enough. He flung his arms round my neck, hugged me to him for quite a while before I realised he was heavy – a dead weight. It took three of us to get him on to his
charpoy
. But no matter how sore the head, every one of us on our RSU – probably every chap in the whole of SEAC – joyously wrote a letter home to our loved ones that night. War over, I’ll be home by Christmas, it said. Believed it too.

Then we got the order to move. Everyone cheered. Only to find we were moving nearer to Burma. Going the wrong way, the chaps shouted. We were worried we weren’t getting out but were on our way to Rangoon. Top brass insisted POWs should get home first. Nobody disagreed. They’d died once already those prisoners. They’d been turned round at the pearly gates by St Peter – might look dead but still too warm to come in. They came through the camp on their way to Bombay. I gave one of them my chocolate ration. Chindit. He’d flown a glider behind the Jap lines. Been in their hands for nearly two years. His bones jangled inside his skin like coins in a bag. Could almost see the squares of chocolate passing down him. Had to watch as he clutched his stomach. He spewed brown liquid back up. Too rich for him. The poor chap cried – openly. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘what a waste.’ Every man was happy to stand aside to let these flimsy scraps of Englishmen get home. What race of people could watch flesh wither on a man until he was no more than a framework? Left me proud to belong to a civilisation where even the most aggrieved was held back from raising a hand to our Japanese prisoners.

But word was, some men were getting their demob quicker than others. Particular skills, you see. Needed for post-war rebuilding back in Blighty. Britain required a new backbone. Men to reconstruct the ravaged land back into something worthy of the British Empire. Evidently there was a list the top brass had drawn up. At first, every airman on our RSU puffed out his chest waiting for that call. Nobody had actually seen this demob priority list but soon everyone began muttering about it. Reports said they had sent home a ballet dancer. A chap had heard it on another unit. A ballet dancer rushed back to England. Perhaps he had to dance on Hitler’s grave, a joker wondered. Maxi knew of a theology student who had been urgently delivered back to his mother in Purley. A bell-ringer. That got everyone tutting. This list worked its way under the skin of nearly every man left out there. Some young goofy idiot, who’d not been out long and spent all that time on mess fatigues, got sent straight back. I asked him what he did in Blighty. He told me he was a plumber’s mate. A plumber’s mate was deemed more important than chaps who could rebuild a fallen Liberator, piece by piece. Absurd. That had me muttering along with the rest. The mechanics, the teachers, the clerks who were all left out here sat brooding on their worth to a country they loved. Wondering what sort of Britain was being built without us. Forgotten war, forgotten army, forgotten again. Everyone agreed: surely every man out here had earned his say.

Of course, it was the Communists who started it. Uncle Joe Stalin’s friends. Wanted everyone in our RSU to down tools. Stop refuelling kites, unloading, servicing, that sort of thing, until we were all promised early demob. I’d wanted nothing to do with those hotheads. Those men who’d cheered the Labour Party victory back home. Ungratefully booting out Churchill after he’d won us the war. They couldn’t wait to get back to England, those Communists. Thought there was a new order waiting for them. ‘Now things will be different,’ spoken with every gesture, every look. Eyeing up Squadron Leader Howarth at Christmas while he (traditionally) served us rankers our meal. Thinking all officer class would be serving them soon. Then moaning about the CO after he’d left. ‘Off back to his bearers and whisky,’ they’d say, ‘and we’re here with just a beer.’ Even the chaps who should’ve known better began agreeing with these rabble-rousers.

‘Got to do something about this business, Pop,’ Maxi said. He wanted me to join in. I told him I had no intention of ending my service days in prison. Think of his sons back in Brighton, I cautioned.

The germ of a rumour about a strike spread to all the RAF out there. Soon everyone had caught it, everyone was dragged in – part of a team, you see. Top brass were jumpy. Squadron Leader Howarth stood on an ammo box, flanked by two Military Police, demanding silence. He called the strike a mutiny, then read out the Riot Act to the circle of disbelieving aircraftmen. Ordered us all to return to duty with immediate effect. Unfortunately the poor CO was the only person in the unit who didn’t know that his two Military Police guards were traitors. Part of the strike plot. He looked as dismayed as a lost child when one of Uncle Joe’s boys began to laugh.

The silly strike lasted no more than a few hours. No one had the stomach for it. Time enough for a game of cards, a letter home or for those chocolate-drop troops from West Africa to beat our lot at football in their bare feet. But still the troublemakers, the ringleaders, strutted around camp like they’d won us a victory. Top brass were listening now, they said. Boasted about some MP that was coming out from Blighty just to hear our grievances. It had all been worthwhile, they told everyone. Groups home were to be speeded up, all thanks to them. Toasted it in beer – the better this, the better that. Believed it too, for a while. Before, that was, they sent us all to Calcutta.

Thirty-eight

Bernard

It was usually a treat to get a few days in Calcutta. Off to the Bristol for a welcome sleep in a bed with cotton sheets. Always Laidlaw’s for a meal. Its best china (after wretched tin cups) tinkling with civilisation. A touch of shopping, perhaps – the Army and Navy or even Hogg Market. A film at the Globe or the Regal. A cold beer for some at the Nip Inn. For those who could, a dance at Firpos. Or just lazing around on the
maidan
, like young chaps, watching girls glide by.

But this trip to Cal was to be more memorable than most.

The men looked puzzled as we RAF tradesmen were issued with a rifle each. ‘Fix bayonets,’ NCO barked. What about ammo? we all wanted to know. ‘No ammo,’ he told us. Herded us on to trucks. Told us to stand in straight rows. Then we were driven off through the streets.

The carcasses of shops came first. Burnt out. Smouldering. Flurries of ash blowing like tropical snow. Goods everywhere. Items that should have been inside strewn down the street. Looted. Picked over for value, then tossed away. But not a native in sight. Not even a begging child was left on the road. Even those who’d never been in Calcutta knew that was an eerie spectacle for India.

More than one man gasped at the scene before us in the next street. Same burnt shops and flurries of ash. But among this were the corpses of the dead. They lay down every road we travelled. Some might have been taken for bundles of rags. Or discarded rubbish. Others were unmistakable. Caught in a silly pose. An arm up, a leg raised. Most carried a look of astonishment. Mouths agape. But all stiff with sudden death. The chaps looked to one another. ‘Fucking hell,’ more than one muttered. This was as savage as anything witnessed during the war. Faces blanched and eyes squeezed shut over some of the sights. Feral dogs worrying at the bloody clothing of the dead. Mouths smeared with blood like a baby’s with chocolate. Gangs of vultures (death’s lackeys) hunching together to squabble over the flesh. Yanking at sinews. Pecking at eyes.

I’ve no idea what started it. But nothing to do with us, we all silently agreed. The natives rioting. Bloody coolies at each other’s throats for something. Hindu against Muslim. Muslim against Hindu. Even those wretched Sikhs were in there somewhere. Spotted carrying swords and blowing a din on their conches. Everything soon became clear. The truckloads of cheerless RAF erks were there to keep them apart.

The stench was as sharp as toothache. No up-wind or downwind. There was no direction that gave relief. Fearful to breathe it into a living lung. Some chaps tore cloth from an old shirt to put over their noses and mouths. Sucking at the perfume of an erk’s sweat instead. The NCO soon made them take the masks off. ‘Get those off your faces. You look like bloody bandits,’ he said.

Many of us lost our footing as the truck’s wheels wobbled. We stopped. The driver looked behind, out of his window. He’d rolled over a body. An arm was still caught under a wheel. ‘You and you, pick that up.’The NCO ordered two men to pick up the body we’d just run over. One of them (troublemaker, Pierpoint, or Spike to his friends), standing square, just looked at this NCO. He put his hand out to his friend to stop him obeying the command.

‘Come on, pick it up, you two,’ the NCO repeated, then moved off. Pierpoint wiped sweat from the back of his neck. His friend watched him, confused. The NCO turned back to them. ‘Pick it up,’ he yelled.

‘Why?’ Pierpoint said.

A few gasps popped in the air. The NCO was as startled as most of the men.

‘What, Airman?’

‘Why, Sergeant?’

‘Because it’s an order.’ The NCO was sweating so much he looked as if he had been varnished. ‘Pick it up.’

Pierpoint flung his arms wide. ‘There’s hundreds of bodies – why are we picking up this one?’

Many thought he had a point.

‘Are you addressing me, Airman?’

‘Sorry. Sergeant. What is special about this one . . . Sergeant?’

‘Name, Airman?’ There was no reply.

‘Name,’ he yelled into his face.

‘Pierpoint, Sergeant.’

‘Well, Pierpoint, I can put you on relief duty. You could spend the day with the wogs picking them all up if you want. Now, get down and pick this one up.’ He lifted up some sacking and threw it at Pierpoint to wrap the body. But Pierpoint just let it drop to his feet. Then stopped his friend bending down to pick up the fallen cloth.

Maxi whispered, ‘Jesus, this is trouble.’