The Rose of Singapore (32 page)

The corporal gave an insane laugh and pointed the revolver at Roberts. “Oh, no you're not. You're going to be next. Do you know why? Because you can't drive.”

“No, Charlie! I'm not going to be next,” said Roberts, almost casually. Then suddenly he shouted, “Look behind you.”

Surprised, the corporal turned his head, lowering the revolver as he did so. It was the moment Roberts needed. With every ounce of energy in him, he sprang forward in a flying tackle, grabbed the corporal's arm and twisted it, hoping the gun would drop to the ground. But he immediately realized his attempt was futile. He was neither strong enough nor skilled enough to combat the highly trained police corporal. Charlie Brown shook him from his arm with ease, and at the same time swung the heavy revolver so that it crashed down upon LAC Roberts's head, smashing in his skull. As if lifeless, Roberts sank to the ground a few feet from where the Malay driver lay in the wetness of his own blood.

Corporal Charlie Brown looked down at each body in turn. “Too bad,” he said, returning the revolver to the holster at his hip. “I only wanted to show Wicked Witch the lights of Singapore.” Turning to his dog, he said to her, “Now, Witch, we shall have to walk, for we have no one to drive us to see the lights.”

Amazingly, Wicked Witch, unsure of what was happening, and receiving no command from her master, had stood nervously at hand the whole time. She had not understood the action at all but her eyes betrayed her agitation and wonderment at what had taken place.

“Come, Wicked Witch. Heel!” commanded Charlie Brown, and away from the signals section strode the very tall Corporal, his faithful dog following a little behind and to the right of him. But they were not heading towards the road that led to the city. Instead, they were heading for the swamps lying between the camp boundary and Changi Gaol.

At three o'clock that morning the orderly officer, accompanied by the orderly sergeant, left the main guardroom to begin their tour of inspection of the fire pickets and the various guarded areas at Royal Air Force Changi. They were making their rounds in a Land Rover driven by LAC Joe Milden of the MT section.

The orderly officer decided that their first place of call would be the signals section hut, located at the far end of the airfield. On arriving there the three in the Land Rover were shocked to find the hut deserted, and the door, which should have been guarded, wide open. There was no one in sight.

A far greater shock awaited them. The orderly sergeant was the first to spot the two bodies lying motionless at the edge of the clearing. Clutching the orderly officer's arm, he cried out, “My God, sir! Look! It's the work of the devil, so it is.”

“Good grief!” exclaimed the horrified orderly officer. “What in heavens name has happened here?”

“They're both dead, sir,” said Cornishman Joe Milden matter-of-factly.

“How the hell do you know?” snapped the officer. “Sergeant, get on the phone. Ring through to the hospital and tell them to send an ambulance here immediately. And tell them to send medical officers and orderlies. Stress the urgency,” he snapped.

The sergeant, springing to attention and saluting smartly, said, “Yes, sir,” and then did a practiced precise about turn.

“For Christ's sake, Sergeant, stop the bullshit and get a move on. And call the guardroom while you're about it.”

“Yes, sir,” snapped the sergeant, already hurrying towards the phone in the hut.

Both the orderly officer and LAC Milden bent over the body of the Signals operator.

“This man's not dead, Milden. He's badly hurt, but look! See! He's breathing!”

“Just about a goner, though, I'd say, sir. Wish the blood wagon would hurry up. Look ‘ere, sir,” he said, pointing a finger at the fallen man's scalp. “It's blood.”

The officer looked at the mess of matted hair and blood. “You're right. He's had a hell of a whack on the head by the look of it. Let's take a look at the other man.”

Together, they crossed the few feet to where the motionless Malay driver lay on his back. Congealed blood had formed on the KD uniform covering the man's stomach. They both bent over the motionless airman.

“By the look of it, he's been knifed or shot in the stomach, sir,” said Joe Milden.

“Yes, Milden. That's rather obvious.”

“He looks dead, sir.”

“Yes, I think he is dead.”

The orderly officer lifted a limp wrist and felt for a pulse. “No, he's not dead!” he exclaimed. “He's got a pulse, very weak but still beating.” Suddenly excited, the officer snapped, “Airman! Get to the phone quickly and ring up the hospital. Tell them to expect emergency operations. No, I'll ring up myself and I'll call the main guardroom.”

“But the sergeant's calling them, sir.”

“I know. But I want to make sure what's going on. You stay here. Don't touch anything. Just listen. There's a chance this man may say something that's vital to us.”

“Yes, sir.”

At that moment the sergeant returned. “Ambulances will be here any minute, sir,” he said. “The hospital's ready to receive them. I've also notified the guardroom and spoken with the guard commander. He's on his way.”

“Good show, Sergeant. What did the guard commander say?”

“He seemed more concerned about the dog-handler who's supposed to be on duty here, a Corporal Brown, sir. Said he'd like to talk to him but I told him there's no dog-handler here.”

“Hmm,” said the puzzled officer. “Yes, there should be a police guard here. I quite forgot.”

“There's supposed be a dog-handler on duty here at all times, sir.”

“If that's the case, then where is he? And where's his dog?”

The sergeant wanted to say, ‘How the hell should I know?' Instead, he said, “I wish I knew.” He rubbed a square chin with a heavy hand. “First time I've come up against anything like this. I don't know what to make of it. You know, sir, I wonder,” he said thoughtfully.

“You wonder what, Sergeant?”

“I'm wondering if the corporal was here when whatever happened here happened. Could it be possible that he and his dog have given chase to the attackers?” he said, hopefully.

“He would have notified the guardroom first.”

“Yes, sir. I suppose so.”

“This certainly is a rum affair, though, Sergeant. It's a job for the SIB to sort out.”

“Sir, look! This chap's eyes are open, and I think he's trying to tell us something,” sang out the excited voice of LAC Milden. “Shh” and he held a finger to his lips seeking silence as all three men bent over the signals operator.

“Take it easy, son. You're going to be all right,” the sergeant said in a gentle voice. “What happened?”

Bluish white lips trembled, and all three men bent closer.

“The corporal. The corporal,” the signals operator whispered, wincing in pain.

“Yes. But what about the corporal?” eagerly asked the orderly officer.

“He did it.”

The whispering ceased, the lips closed, the frightened eyes fluttered, and then they, too, closed.

“He's passed out again, sir. Did you hear what he said?”

“Yes, I heard him,” said the bewildered officer. “The corporal did it.”

“Yes. That's what I thought he said. It doesn't make sense, does it? If this man's words are correct, the corporal must have gone bonkers.”

“I beg your pardon, Sergeant?”

“Nuts, sir! You know, crazy!”

“The corporal?”

“Yes, the corporal, sir. My Sherlock Holmes intuition tells me that he attempted to bump these two off, then footed it somewhere. See! He must have left on foot because their MT vehicle is still parked here. He did this then walked calmly away.”

“Let's not jump to conclusions, Sergeant. Let's not say too much against the man, not yet anyway. We may be wrong.”

“I hope we are.”

“Corporal Charlie Brown should be on duty here tonight, sir,” butted in LAC Milden. “He's a good chap. He's the last man who would do something like this. I know him well. Everybody likes Charlie Brown.”

“Hmm.” The orderly officer frowned, then sighed. “As soon as the Station Duty Officer arrives, we'll decide what action to take. Ah! Here's an ambulance now. And here come the police.”

In a great cloud of dust, the blue-grey ambulance roared into the clearing and skidded to a standstill close to where the three men were standing over the two bodies lying motionless on the ground. Within seconds the two injured men were placed on stretchers and hoisted into the ambulances. Within minutes they would be arriving at the emergency section at RAF Changi Hospital.

It was now six o'clock in the morning, already daylight, with the sun rapidly rising up over the horizon.

The search for Corporal Charlie Brown was underway. The search party was made up of personnel from many sections: RAF police and fellow police dog-handlers accompanied by their vicious charges; civil police; medical orderlies; plus volunteer airmen from the fire section, catering section and motor transport pool. All were airmen who personally knew and liked Charlie.

Only the police carried revolvers, which they were compelled to carry as part of their uniform when on duty. However, on this morning no firearm would be used, not unless it was absolutely necessary. Corporal Charlie Brown was too well liked for any of his searchers to wish him harm. They wanted to safeguard him, to get him into the hospital for treatment. Actually, the majority of the searchers still could not believe that it was Charlie who had committed those brutal acts on two defenseless co-workers.

The massive search party formed a ring around the many acres of swampland and cautiously moved inward. There were five police dogs out there, too, tracking with their masters. The scents of Charlie and Wicked Witch were easy for the dogs to follow. Straining at their leashes, sniffing and snarling and eager and excited, but baffled occasionally when splashing through mud and water, they pursued their quarries through thorny bushes and tall coarse grasses. The place was alive with many species of snakes, mostly poisonous. Fortunately, most of these slipped discreetly away, to hide whilst the tide of men and dogs passed over.

Suddenly, someone shouted, “There he is. There's Charlie Brown. Over on that hillock.”

All eyes turned to where a medical orderly was pointing. Sure enough Corporal Brown had risen from scrub bushes and stood his full height for all to see, watching his pursuers not fifty yards away encircling and closing in on him. He appeared to be quite calm and unconcerned, as did his dog, which stood patiently at her master's side. Slowly, Corporal Brown lifted his revolver and squeezed the trigger, aiming towards the circle of moving men but at no one in particular. The bullet, glancing off a rock, ricocheted, whining and flying wild. The searchers dropped as one into the mire and waited.

“Charlie! Put down your gun! We're your friends! We've come to take you back to the camp,” shouted a fellow corporal police dog-handler. “We'll have breakfast together.”

“Hey! Charlie! This is ol' fatty Ginger Brent. You gotta be hungry. Let's go back to the kitchen. I'll fix you bacon and eggs and we'll have a mug of tea together,” shouted the cook. Only an hour earlier LAC Brent had come off a ten-hour night shift in the airmens' mess kitchen. He'd had a busy night with three big transport planes arriving at Changi loaded with army chaps coming in from England en route to Korea. He'd helped cook and serve grilled spam, scrambled eggs, sautéed potatoes and toast for over two hundred men in transit, plus the normal late suppers and early breakfasts for night-duty personnel. He was tired and still in his cooks' whites, but on hearing the bad news about Charlie, had immediately volunteered to help in the search. He and Charlie were good friends.

Brent's words were greeted by another shot from Charlie's revolver, followed by a third, then a fourth, all seemingly fired aimlessly. Then, but for the yapping of the dogs, silence fell across the swamps.

“He hasn't reloaded. He can't have many more rounds left in that gun. I think it's empty, unless he reloaded it before we saw him,” muttered Sergeant Chapman of the fire department. “Come on, Smithy,” he said, addressing his corporal, “Let's move forward.”

“OK, but take it easy.”

Again the ring of men slowly closed in on Charlie Brown, but more cautiously than before, creeping through sharp-thorned willow-type bushes and crawling through stinking mud and over stones covered in slime. The two men of the fire section were now less than twenty yards from where Corporal Brown and his dog stood on the grass-covered hillock.

Sergeant Chapman raised himself from behind a bush and said in a fatherly and not too loud a voice, “OK, Charlie. Take it easy,” and beckoning the dog-handler with a wave of his hand, he said, “Come on down here with us. We'll drive you back to camp.”

Corporal Brown didn't acknowledge him, but instead stood staring out over the swamps as if seeing or hearing no one.

“OK! We're coming up, Charlie,” shouted the sergeant. And he stood up, an easy target, but Corporal Brown ignored him.

“Charlie,” the nasal voice of Corporal Smith rang out. “It's me, Smithy. Remember me? I'm your pal in the fire section. I'm coming up to you. I've no gun, so throw yours down. I'm coming up. Do you hear me?”

The provost police sergeant was now at Corporal Smith's side. “Steady,” he said. “Don't do anything silly.”

“Yeah. Don't panic him,” someone else said.

“I'll go up and see if I can reason with him,” said SIB Corporal Symes.

“I'll come with you,” said dog-handler Corporal Ben Jones, Charlie's roommate. “I'll try to talk to Wicked Witch and keep her quiet. She could be a problem. She has only one master.”

“I know,” said Corporal Symes of the Service Investigation Branch. “OK. You come along, Ben. Maybe my judo will come in handy. I've always bettered Charlie at it. He may need pinning down.”