The Rose of Singapore (31 page)

“Time passes quickly. Too quickly.”

“Maybe for you but I count the months, the weeks, even the days, and I mark them off on a calendar. Tour ex seems an eternity away.”

“The way you're going about it, it will seem that way. Don't look at the calendar. You'll be surprised at how time flies.”

“For you but not for me.”

The two were now walking along the road, had already passed the WRAF block and were approaching the Malcolm Club, when Charlie Brown said, “I'm going into the club, Pete, to buy a box of matches and get a cold drink. It may do this head of mine some good. Christ! I was crazy to fall asleep on the beach.”

The two parted company, Corporal Charlie Brown branching off to the left and striding towards the Malcolm Club, while LAC Peter Saunders followed the road which led to the bus stop.

His conversation with the police dog-handler already gone from his mind, Peter was now considering how to spend the afternoon and where to take Rose. The weather was perfect, neither too hot nor too humid, just the right day to enjoy a visit to someplace outside the city. He remembered Rose had mentioned how much she enjoyed their visit to the Botanical Gardens. However, on looking at his watch, he realized it was far too late for such an excursion. By now he had almost reached the bus stop.

Meanwhile, Corporal Brown had entered the Malcolm Club, bought a box of matches and an orangeade at the bar, then had settled back in an easy chair and relaxed his burning body. He was thinking how foolish he had been to fall asleep on the hot sand at the beach, with the sun blazing down upon his body and him wearing nothing but shorts. His throbbing headache had worsened and now he felt strangely light-headed, and his eyes were not focussing properly. Everything around him was blurred. He wiped his eyes with his fingers in an attempt to clear them. Suddenly feeling cold and shivery, as if he had a fever, he wiped sweat from his brow, noticing as he did this that his hand was trembling uncontrollably.

Gulping down the ice-cold orangeade, he lit a cigarette, drew on it and closed his eyes. The cigarette might steady his nerves, he thought. But now he felt another sensation, like pins and needles creeping into the throbbing headache. He noticed the Chinese barman staring at him. Perhaps the barman was thinking he had a bad hangover. Charlie forced a grin and the barman turned away and went about his business.

An hour later, Corporal Brown lifted himself with difficulty from the chair, and stood holding onto the table, swaying slightly, and feeling as if he was about to vomit. He decided to return to the police block, take a shower, a couple of aspirin, and try to sleep for a few hours before reporting for duty.

The RAF Malay Regiment motor transport (MT) driver stroked his chin and looked enquiringly across the clearing to where Corporal Charlie Brown, the police guard, sat as if in deep meditation, alone, except for Wicked Witch, who lay quietly at his feet. A full Malayan moon shone down upon Charlie Brown, glittering on his highly polished brasses and causing his white military police hat to resemble a big white plate upon his bowed head.

“Corporal Brown sure has a cob on tonight,” said the Malay driver, turning his head and speaking to the airman who sat with legs outstretched upon an empty crate outside the signals hut. “He was acting kind of strange when I drove him here. Said he had a bad headache.”

“He told me the same,” said his companion, LAC Roberts of the Signals Section. “Looks to me as if he's had too much sun. He looks ill.”

“Yeah. He looks bad. He shouldn't be on duty.”

“I'm thinking the same. He's never acted like this before.”

“No, he hasn't. He's usually the most cheerful of the bunch. Normally I'm glad when it's his turn to keep watch down here.”

“Me too. But he hasn't said a dickybird tonight though, except to tell me he has a headache.”

The Malay MT driver said, “Perhaps he's got woman trouble. Maybe he hasn't heard from his girlfriend lately.”

“This is not woman trouble. Charlie's definitely ill,” said LAC Roberts. “I think I'll call the guardroom and explain the situation. Maybe they'll send a replacement.”

“If they do send a replacement, Charlie could be charged with self-inflicted injuries for getting so badly sunburned.”

“True. I'd hate to get him into trouble. But he's in a bloody bad state,” said Roberts.

“Why don't we wait until the orderly officer makes his rounds?” suggested the MT driver. “He should be here within the hour. Let him decide what's best to do.”

The three men—LAC Roberts, the duty signaler, AC Hamid, RAF Malay Regiment duty MT driver, and Corporal Brown, RAF police dog-handler—were on duty at the little signals hut which stood in a clearing half-way between the far end of the number two runway and a row of tall coconut palms fronting the beach. To the right of the Signals Section hut were swamps. Corporal Brown and Wicked Witch's duty was to guard the signals hut and its radio operator LAC Roberts. It was considered a cushy number, especially at night, a tea-drinking job where one could relax, talk, play cards and await incoming radio signals. That was a normal night's work. Tonight, however, an uneasy atmosphere hung over the section, all because the police dog-handler was not his usual friendly self.

Corporal Charlie Brown sat silently several yards away from the other two, holding his head in his hands. At his feet lay Wicked Witch, a vicious, black and grey Alsatian trained to kill, her long tongue dripping saliva and hanging loose from gaping jaws. She looked up intermittently and with uneasy eyes at her master, seemingly aware that all was not well with him. Eventually she gave a great yawn, rested her head upon a highly polished boot and studied her master with savage eyes, yet Corporal Brown saw in them only tenderness. He dropped a hand and gently stroked the great head that lay across his feet and breaking his silence said, “Witch, you're a faithful bastard. You know when I'm down, don't you, even when nobody else cares.”

The dog yawned her agreement.

“Well, you're the master tonight, not me,” said Charlie Brown.

At one o'clock in the morning, a full moon and a galaxy of stars shone their brilliance down upon that two-acre clearing, lighting up the signals hut as if it were already daytime, and all was quiet except for the occasional loud croaking of bullfrogs coming from the nearby swamps.

With no signals coming through, it had been a quiet night so far for LAC Reggy Roberts. Having taken off his earphones, he now sat on an empty, upturned electrical cable crate in the doorway of the wireless cabin, holding a mug of tea in one hand and in the other an open book, which rested on his knees. It was an interesting book, in his opinion one of the greatest sea stories of all time,
Mutiny on the Bounty
written by Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall. But, although halfway through the book, Reggy Roberts could not concentrate on reading it further—tonight he was too concerned about Charlie Brown's unusual behaviour.

Aircraftman Hamid, the young RAF Malay Regiment duty driver, had been with Roberts these past two hours. His job was to shuttle guards and other military personnel to and from outlying posts. Not needed for at least another hour, he was killing time at the quietest location of his detailed route. He now stood leaning with his back against a window ledge of the hut, his handsome brown face catching the full light of the moon.

“He simply said he wished to be left alone,” said AC Hamid. “I can't understand the fellow at all. I'll be glad when the orderly officer shows up.”

“You and me both,” agreed LAC Roberts.

Suddenly, Corporal Brown's head ceased to ache, and with the same suddenness his vision returned to normal and everything around him became clear. He was his usual happy and healthy self again, relaxed and able to enjoy the tranquillity of this beautiful moonlit night. Yet, in his seemingly clear mind, something nagged at him, something he could not grasp. His mind churned. What was it, he wondered. Was it something he must do, or something he would like to do? Then it dawned on him. He had promised his dog a visit to the city. Now would be the time to keep his promise, to walk the lighted streets of the city with Wicked Witch at his side. He'd show her people hurrying to and fro, flashing neon signs, open shops, cars, everything. But it was late, much too late. Or was it, he wondered. He rubbed a sweaty hand across a hot, perspiring brow. Was it too late? Suddenly his mind was made up. No, he decided, it was not too late. Why shouldn't Wicked Witch visit the city and see the lights? “Good old Wicked Witch. Faithful bastard. Good dog,” he muttered to himself, bending and patting the dog's back. “You're going to see the lights of Singapore, old girl, and no one's going to stop us. And if they try?” and on his face there was now the look of a madman. “But no one will stop us. Tonight we shall see the lights.” Corporal Brown rose slowly to his feet. “Driver!” he called out. “Come here.”

“What's up, Charlie?” asked the Malay driver.

“I said, come here.”

“Yeah. OK. I'm coming.”

“‘Yes, Corporal,' when you speak to me,” snapped Charlie in a unfamiliarly stern voice.

“Yes, Corporal, when you speak to me,” whispered the driver to LAC Roberts. “What's wrong with him? I don't like this, Reg.”

“Nor me,” said the puzzled signals operator.

“Come here, airman! At the double,” shouted Corporal Charlie Brown.

“Yes, Corporal. I'm coming,” said the bewildered Malay driver. Walking slowly across the clearing to where the dog-handler stood, he stopped in alarm when he drew near enough to see crazed eyes in a drawn face glaring angrily at him.

“You took your time coming,” snapped the corporal. “Let's see if you can get a move on. Drive me and my dog into Singapore,” he ordered.

On hearing the command, the driver's face showed amazement. “When, Corporal?” he asked nervously.

“Now, of course.”

“But I can't, Corporal.”

“Can't! Why not?”

“Are you crazy? You're on duty. And so am I.”

“I said drive us into Singapore, Airman. You understand me, don't you?”

“But, Corporal!” and Hamid looked in bewilderment over to where the radio operator sat listening.

LAC Roberts butted into the conversation. “He can't do that, Charlie, and you know it.”

“Rap up, you!”

“The orderly officer will be around soon, Charlie. You can't go off and leave your post, just like that,” loudly protested the radio operator.

“I said, rap up. Shut your face or I'll shut it for you. I'm going to see the lights and so is my dog. Get over to your wagon and get the engine started,” he ordered the driver.

“Christ, Charlie, you're crazy,” shouted Roberts, the operator.

“Shut up! Get moving, driver.”

“I can't leave here, except to take you to the guardroom or to the hospital,” said the exasperated driver. “How about I take you tomorrow when we're both off duty?”

“No! You'll take me now.”

“I can't.”

“By hell! You will!”

“No, Corporal, I won't. Reg, ring up the guardroom. I think Corporal Brown is ill or something.”

“Don't touch that phone, Roberts,” the dog-handler ordered.

In dismay, both Roberts and the Malay driver watched as Corporal Charlie Brown's hand drop to his revolver holster, unbutton it and withdraw from it his heavy service revolver. The next moment the weapon was levelled at the now fearful driver.

“Don't be a fool. Put that away. Don't play games with that thing,” shouted Roberts.

“I'm giving you to the count of five,” Corporal Charlie Brown said to the horrified driver. “If your wagon is not ready by the time I reach five, you've had it.”

“Put that damned thing away,” screamed Roberts.

“One. Two.”

“Don't, Charlie,” pleaded the Malay driver.

“Three. Well, driver?”

“Let the three of us sit down and talk the matter over. But put the gun down first,” said LAC Roberts, knowing that he must get to the phone, and fast.

“Four. One count left, driver.”

“OK! OK! Anything you say.”

“Five. Too late, driver. Sorry.” And Corporal Brown squeezed the trigger. The quietness of the night was shattered, just for that one moment, and a bluish pall of smoke drifted away from the muzzle of the gun.

In horrified amazement the driver stood gaping at the dog-handler. He could not believe that he had been shot. He opened his mouth and gasped air into failing pumping lungs, like a fish out of water gasping air on a riverbank. His eyes were wide open, staring in shock and dismay at the corporal and at the gun he held in his hand. He had felt very little pain when the bullet hit him, just a thud in the stomach in the region of his solar plexus. Slowly his hand slid down to the spot, as if fearful of what it would find. He pressed the spot where he had felt the thud, then drew his hand away and held it up so that he could inspect the palm. It was dripping with his own warm blood. Already surprised and shocked by the events of the past few moments, the expression on his face did not change. Placing his hand to the spot again, he held it there, pressing, as if to keep the blood within his body. Staring at the dog-handler, he shook his head sadly from side to side. “No need for that, Charlie,” he said, almost in a whisper. He then sank to his knees, and slowly rolling over fell on to his back, and became still.

“My God, you've killed him, you crazy fool,” shouted the horrified Roberts. “You've killed him.” It was then that he also saw those insane eyes. Right up until the corporal had fired, he had thought the corporal was playing some ghastly game. He had left it too late to intervene, even if he had been able. For moments he had become paralyzed with fright at the suddenness of the shooting, but now his senses were returning to him. He must quickly decide what to say, and what to do. “Put that gun down, Corporal Brown,” he ordered. “I'm going to ring up for another driver.” He thought it wise not to say he wanted to call the main guardroom, also the hospital to send an ambulance.