First published in 2019 by Huia Publishers

39 Pipitea Street, PO Box 12280

Wellington, Aotearoa New Zealand

www.huia.co.nz

ISBN 978-1-77550-349-1 (print)

ISBN 978-1-77550-368-2 (EPUB)

ISBN 978-1-77550-368-2 (Kindle)

Copyright © David B Hill 2019

Cover images: Map of the East Indies © Wikimedia Commons

Tea stain © ArtsyBee / Pixabay.com

Anchor vector © Yuri Chuprakov / Shutterstock

ML403 (on back cover above map) © RNZN Museum

All other images © David Hill

The haka ‘Ka Mate’, on pages 65, 66 and 189, was composed by Te Rauparaha, who was a chief of Ngāti Toa Rangatira.

This book is copyright. Apart from fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without the prior permission of the publisher.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

Published with the assistance of

Ebook conversion 2019 by meBooks

It is little known that among those New Zealanders who sailed off to war in 1940 was a group of 244 ratings from the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve (New Zealand Division), many of them only teenaged.

Even less known is what happened to them.

Tama tū, tama ora
Tama noho, tama mate.

He who stands lives.
He who sits perishes.

Wavell thought the Japanese would attack from the west; Percival thought they would attack the Naval Base. Wavell was right, and the poorly supported Australians bore the brunt.

WIKIMEDIA COMMONS

1

A Place Desired by Many

Because no part of Auckland is far from the sea, young Len Hill needed to travel only a couple of miles from his home in Mount Eden in order to reach it, which he did whenever he was able. He took the tram to Ponsonby, then walked down College Hill from Three Lamps and along past the Gas Company and Victoria Park to the edge of the harbour. He liked it best when the tide was out and he was able to walk – it seemed for miles – around the harbour edge, running his hands along the cliff face, tracing the serpentine geology of the shoreline. He explored beneath the contortions of massive pōhutukawa whose trunks hung impossibly from the cliffs above, or he wandered out along the mudflats between ramshackle wharves that had been allowed to stretch out into the bay, turning over stones and shells and odd bits of jetsam, looking for marine life. When the tide was full, he stood on the wharves and watched people fishing, and boatmen working the busy waterside of the old harbour, in air that offered the occasional rich mix of odours: salt, decomposing seaweed, fish in various stages of decay, paint and turpentine. A marine industry had built up along Beaumont Street, and Len would wander past the many boatyards, dawdling around the gates with curiosity, then make his way to the modest yacht clubs belonging to local communities, with names like Ponsonby, Victoria and Richmond, and watch the yachties work on their boats. Between the yacht clubs and the boatyards, beneath the cliff at Saint Mary’s Bay, stood a new, somewhat temporary-looking building next to a sliver of unused land left over after the reclamation of adjacent Freemans Bay. The building was more of a big shed built on stilts, standing in the water and accessible by a precarious staircase leading down the cliff face from the street above. The locals knew this stairway as Jacob’s Ladder. To Len, as to most, the building below was a place distinguished only by some signage referring to the Navy.

He spent as much of his free time as he could messing around the shoreline, and he was rarely alone. The boys that hung around the Saint Mary’s Bay waterfront in the 1930s were an odd assortment. There was Jackie Hayward, and two brothers who both answered to the name of Mac. There were a couple of Grammar boys from Epsom, one with a perpetual smile whose name Len didn’t know and the other a skinny, sandy-haired boy with whom Len connected the way small boys do, competing to skim stones the furthest distances, to climb higher up the cliff or out onto a pōhutukawa branch. Jack Hulbert was an only child who lived on Mountain Road in a big villa with a tennis court. He only looked undernourished. Jack had a yacht.

Len began to spend less time on the waterfront and more time on the water sailing in Jack’s yacht, and, unsurprisingly, the friendship between the two prospered. Between them, they managed to raise twenty-five pounds and pay top price for a brand-new type of sailing dinghy called a Swift, marked with the conspicuous registration Z1.

Throughout the summers of the late 1930s, Jack and Len would take off into the outer Gulf, beyond Waiheke to Rakino and Ponui, sometimes for days. Or as long as the baked beans lasted. There was always somebody they knew out there somewhere, and they came across others they recognised often. It might be a day at Motukorea, picnicking on the beach, when some of the boys brought their girlfriends. Many times they were out overnight, rafted together in some bay. Practical lads, Len and Jack hoisted a canvas over the boom, which served very adequately as shelter. Occasionally they would sleep ashore: under the macrocarpas on Motutapu was a favourite choice. There they could lie on the soft forest floor, and the air was redolent with the aroma of pine. The breeze would hiss through the trees, and from the bay below came the sound of waves breaking. When they chose not to anchor in some rocky cove, they might raise the keel and let the boat settle on sand. If they didn’t troll for kahawai, they would drop a line somewhere or winkle mussels from the rocks. The best of days were spent fishing at the Noises, or around Rakino, diving for scallops in the shallow waters then, as the sun went down, baking them open on corrugated iron over a fire.

They spotted shooting stars and named the constellations.

And they sailed.

Even in the late thirties, the combustion engine was still, for many, a technology beyond reach. Sail was king on the Gulf, and the boys revelled in the freedom it gave them. There was nothing like the sound of an anchor chain being hauled over the gunwale. It didn’t matter in what direction they headed as long as they tasted salt on their lips and felt the wind on their backs and the sun on their faces. There was nothing like hoisting the little headsail and sheeting everything in hard. Nothing quite matched the thrill of sailing close to the wind.

★ ★ ★

Len often sat at the bottom of Jacob’s Ladder, curious about the building standing in the water of Saint Mary’s Bay, and watched boys sail in and out of the bay in a whaleboat that was apparently stored inside. One day in the early spring of 1939, he was sitting there watching when a tall bloke, whom he had seen frequently on the waterfront, walked straight up the beach and stood in front of him. Confronted by this person, who stood head and shoulders above him, Len was forced to squint, trying to get the tall boy’s measure. Big ears. With the bright sun radiating from behind his head, they glowed bright red.

‘Gidday,’ said the boy. ‘If you want to, why don’t you come and have a look?’

With barely a moment’s hesitation Len said yes, and they made their way along the beach, Len hopping first to the left then to the right, and skipping a couple of times to keep up with the long strides of his companion. He introduced himself.

‘Leonard,’ said Len rather formally, and thrust out a hand.

‘Bill, mate,’ said his companion out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Call me Lofty.’

You don’t say, thought Len.

The two boys shook hands.

‘Gidday. Can I come too?’

Someone appeared beside them, out of nowhere. It was the other Grammar boy, the one with the perpetual grin.

Lofty did the introductions.

‘Lofty. Len.’

‘Tim,’ said the boy. They acknowledged one other with a handshake.

‘Gidday.’

‘Gidday.’

Tim looked at Len.

‘Yeah, seen you hanging around here. Spot that haircut a mile off. Where do you live?’ he asked.

Len’s face reddened, and he hastened to hide his embarrassment. Bloody haircut. Why did his mother have to use a bowl?

‘Mount Eden. Kowhai Street, near the school.’

‘Epsom,’ said Tim. ‘I live in Epsom. Other side of the mountain.’

‘You coming or what?’ said Lofty.

They went inside. Rectangular with wooden floors, most of the interior was a gymnasium-like space, festooned in places with ropes hanging from the rafters, flags hanging around the walls, including the Union Jack, Naval Ensign, and other memorabilia. A wooden horse and other exercise equipment were stacked neatly in one corner. Len guessed that a locker room and ablution block were down a corridor, judging from the sounds of laughter and running water that echoed back. He noticed the sign on the back wall. The place was the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve (Auckland Division) Headquarters; it was called Ngapona. He could not help but be impressed, and he smiled.

They met a few of the other boy sailors, and Len and Tim learned a bit about the Naval Reserve before Len noticed the clock. Somehow time had flown, and if he didn’t get home in time his dinner would be cold, and so would be the reception. He hurriedly explained to Lofty and Tim, made his apologies then left, but as he gained pace walking back past the gasworks he heard his name called. Turning, he found Tim in hot pursuit.

‘Thanks, mate. I might as well head home too. We can share a tram to Symonds Street if you like.’

Tim talked, laughed and puffed all at the same time, and Len smiled to himself as they walked up College Hill. Tim’s surname turned out to be Hill too, so they talked about that for a while, exploring the possibility that perhaps they were related, a couple of generations back: strangers in a strange land and that sort of thing. Tim had six siblings and, like Jack Hulbert, also went to Grammar.

The two of them got on the tram at Three Lamps, found a seat and continued chatting, about Ngapona, Lofty, and the boy sailors they had just met. Len thought they all seemed like good blokes, and by the time the two boys reached the stop in Symonds Street, he was looking forward to seeing them again.

‘See you later,’ he said as they separated at the tram stop.

‘Not if I see you first,’ replied Tim. He swung down from the still moving tram and made straight towards an attractive girl dressed in an overcoat and clutching a small red handbag, who was leaning against the tram shelter. Just as they seemed about to meet up, another tram arrived and obscured Len’s view, so he sat there wondering until his tram reached Valley Road and he got off.

He bubbled with excitement as he told his parents where he had been and what he had seen. He could see that as they had been caught up in his enthusiasm, they had overlooked his lateness, as he had hoped, so he kept talking. In fact, the experience was the subject of his conversation for the entire following week, at the end of which his brother and sister were imploring him to change the subject. When, a fortnight later, he came home exhausted after an afternoon’s sailing with Jack Hulbert and announced he wanted to join the Reserve, it did not come as a surprise to anyone, and his parents offered no objection. On the contrary, they recognised a passion in him they had not seen before, and were glad for it. Furthermore, Len was just about to turn nineteen, and his brother Bill, three years his senior, had already joined the Territorials, so it would have been difficult for them to refuse. He did notice though troubled looks pass between them and a tone of resignation in their voices. He was aware through reading the newspaper and listening to other people’s conversations that there was the possibility of another European war, but his parents gave their consent, and that was all that mattered to him.

★ ★ ★

On 14 August 1939, Len, Lofty and one of the McVinnie boys joined the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, and their lives changed irrevocably.

On 01 September ‘Naval Mobilization Emergency Regulations’ had been published, which included a statement that there was ‘no obligation to report on any member of the Reserve’. All summonses would be individual. On 02 September shipping controls and coastal surveillance networks had been established, and a few sailors of the Reserve found themselves being sent to man coast watch stations and defensive gun emplacements. Ships began to be requisitioned. On 03 September, Lt Newell and four ratings assumed a twenty-four-hour watch at Ngapona, to prepare for call-up. The die was cast with the declaration of war on 04 September.

On 22 September 1939, Len turned nineteen.

That same day, the New Zealand Minister of Defence felt obliged to publicly reiterate that ‘Naval personnel, including trained Reservists, should continue in regular employment and would be called up if and when required.’ It was a signal to do nothing.

An extraordinary number of the waterfront gang had enlisted in the Reserve. Apart from Len and Lofty Neville, both the McVinnies were now in, as well as the three Jacks: Hayward, Hulbert and Kindred. Alistair McArthur was in, and Tim Hill. Because Len and Tim had common surnames, they were given consecutive service numbers, A1888 and A1889, and so would often share duties. Some people even thought of them as brothers.

The training establishment ran a rigorous programme three nights a week, and the trainers were all typically barnacle-encrusted ex-members of the various elements of the Royal Navy: paternal figures, many with combat experience in the Great War, who imbued in the young men over time a solid foundation of basic seamanship and a keen spirit of competition. Len now disappeared for most of every week, and not just to the Reserve Headquarters at Saint Mary’s Bay, but also to the Naval Base at Devonport. The boy sailors were involved in drills as well as sailing, where Len quickly revealed his enthusiasm and aptitude, especially in competition with the other crews. There were weekly parades and inspections. On Saturdays there were classes in signals, navigation and gunnery, and competitions in shooting, sailing or rowing. They played rugby. They boxed, a sport at which Tim Hill, a Grammar school champion, excelled. Regattas were opportunities to measure their performance against others, especially the great Anniversary Day regatta in January of 1940, and the boys especially liked racing against civilian crews: gentlemen yacht clubs in particular. Here Jack Hulbert excelled, as did Len, who by this time had confidence enough to seek positions on other people’s boats, and had a reputation for being quick, smart and generally available. In one particular race on Anniversary Day, he showed great skill and seamanship in beating a faster boat with an experienced crew belonging to the Royal New Zealand Yacht Squadron. He had found his element. It was the start of a lifetime’s relationship with the sea.

Elsewhere, in real life, the effects of the Depression still prevailed, and the boys were often hungry, had no work and typically walked to and from training. Apart from teaching skills, the Reserve also offered relief and gave whatever welfare it could afford to those who needed it. It introduced a tram fare subsidy, if only one-way, and provided tea, milk, sugar and other food supplements to improve the wellbeing of the ratings. The Officers themselves contributed to this fund.

Saturday night in summer would often end in a dance, and Ngapona earned a reputation as a dance venue, with modest suppers and interesting themes. Sometimes the boys would finish their Saturday at the Mission to Seamen charitable institution, helping the padre for the sake of a free seat to watch a picture.

On one such night, a week after the Anniversary Day regatta, Len arrived late to the darkened room in which the film had already started. In the flickering light of the projector, he squeezed past a couple of people and took his seat, waiting for his eyes to adjust. When he looked about himself, to his surprise he found he was sitting next to the attractive girl he had noticed at Tim’s tram stop. He leaned forward and looked to the person seated on her other side, and he discovered Tim looking straight back at him, smiling broadly. Len wasn’t sure, but he thought Tim winked at him, and he shook his head in disbelief. The crafty devil had smuggled his girlfriend into the film. He himself wouldn’t have had the courage. Not that it mattered, since he didn’t have a girlfriend.

At the end, the three left the room before the lights went up and headed towards the tram. Tim introduced his girlfriend. ‘Len, this is Ava. Ava, this is Len. I told you about him: the bloke with the pudding-bowl haircut.’

‘Tim!’ retorted Ava, and turned to Len, saying, ‘Don’t let him tease you.’

‘I don’t,’ replied Len, thinking how glad he was that he’d been able to pay for his own haircuts lately.

‘But he knows how to sail,’ Tim continued. ‘You remember, I told you how he luffed the Squadron crew right out of Saturday’s race. He was all over them.’

Ava looked at Len as they walked. ‘What’s luff mean?’ she asked, with a low, rich laugh. She had a real grace about her. Len began to understand how Tim had fallen under her spell.

★ ★ ★

The boy sailors continued to receive extensive training in whaleboat and pinnace manoeuvres, signalling, and gun and rifle competitions, largely ignoring the events in Europe that had filled headlines for months. The highlight of their training came with the annual parade of inspection, when Reservists publicly demonstrated their standards of efficiency, smartness and discipline. The parade marched down Queen Street to great applause and along Fanshawe Street to Victoria Park, where the general public was able to watch the review. The Rear Admiral and his party arrived from Devonport by pinnace and disembarked at Saint Mary’s Bay. It was a proud occasion for all. Len saw his parents in the crowd, his mother, Kate, a proud Māori woman immaculate in her favourite mauve suit, with overcoat, hat and gloves, and Arthur, his father, his skinny Irish frame hidden inside a blue pinstripe suit and tie. He thought he could see his sister, Joy, in the crowd, but there was no mistaking Bill dressed in his army uniform, beaming at him from the crowd, and sporting a black eye! Len looked forward to finding out how his brother acquired that.

He gave his all to the occasion for the sake of his parents. As Lord Galway offered some words, most of which drifted on the wind away from the crowd’s hearing, he contemplated the importance to him of all the other people in his life. Not only his family and friends. He thought of the boys he was standing beside. Within the Reserve, the idea that everybody mattered was fundamental; it ensured that some of his friendships would transcend the ordinary and endure.

That night he stood studying a decorative print that hung in the house beside the telephone seat in the hall. It was a popular engraving called ‘The Mission boat accompanying a New Zealand war expedition’, recorded by the Reverend Henry Williams when he and others were travelling in a mission vessel with the tauā, hoping to intercede and prevent bloodshed. As a child, Len would climb up onto a chair and stare, rapt, at the detail of the image, thinking about the challenges of seamanship and survival. The thing that constantly engaged him – then, as it did now – was the paddlers. They lined the rauawa of every waka in massed symmetry, straining forward in an attitude of great intensity, every paddle raised in unison, reaching in collective readiness for the stroke. He could feel the spray on his face.

On the back he had found an inscription, written in pencil in an elegant Victorian hand. It read ‘Titore and Ururoa, travelling in long distance war canoes to raid Tauranga’. The unusual symmetry of the word Ururoa caught his attention. He rolled it around in his mouth trying to articulate it, managing the four syllables in the end. He returned the picture to the wall properly and stood staring at it for a moment more. Who were Titore and Ururoa, and how did this picture come to be in the house at all?

2

Somewhere Else

Auckland in spring is a benign and pleasant place. Days lengthen and temperatures warm. Seasonal winds lighten and shift more easterly, and on the best days the air is still, and the sea in the inner gulf swells a little then troughs slightly as if breathing in a gentle slumber. Visibility is infinite from the mountainsides, where late daffodils seek the sun from beneath the shade of native trees, and little boats can be seen flitting across the water of the inner harbour. Across the city’s ridges and valleys, exotic species begin their bud-burst to add more colour to the thousand shades of green. Ordinarily the mood would be relaxed, even a little soporific, as people turned their faces to the sun, drank tea and dreamed of summer’s arrival.

But now, the country was preparing for war. In Saint Mary’s Bay the mood was not so much one of rising tension as it was of increasing confusion. The eagerness and enthusiasm that the boy sailors brought to their training became routine, while the government’s September instruction to do nothing and carry on their normal lives stretched into the new year, and began to erode their ambition and morale. Few had any understanding of what was going on behind the scenes, but their predicament became clearer one day when they were called to muster at Ngapona to be addressed by the Senior Officer of the Reserve.

Inside, everyone was absorbed in eager expectation, and the babble of conversation only subsided when the officers entered the hall and the boys were instructed to sit, an informality that surprised them. The informality continued when their leader, Lieutenant Commander Charles Palmer, came from behind the lectern to address them. At this point silence descended. The boy sailors held the man in the highest regard, not only because of his reputation and impressive service record in the Great War, but because of his nurturing, paternal manner. He wasn’t called ‘the Old Man’ for nothing. Among the other officers of the Reserve sitting on the podium was his son, also called Charles.

‘Gentlemen,’ Palmer began, pausing while his audience settled. ‘What I am about to tell you will be welcomed by some, and will disappoint others. Such is the nature of service. Be that what it may, what I expect from you all is understanding and compliance. Am I understood?’

‘Aye aye, sir!’ The assembled body shouted the reply in resounding unison.

Palmer turned to face his fellow officers and offered them a subtle smile before turning back to face his audience again.

‘We are members of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, albeit of the New Zealand Division.’ Here, the sailors raised a cheer.

Palmer continued, loudly, ‘Unfortunately’ – now he paused for effect, and quiet quickly ensued – ‘Unfortunately, that means that decisions that matter most to us, to each and every one of us, are made in Britain, and are made according to circumstances that are largely beyond our comprehension, and certainly beyond our control.’

Now he had their undivided attention. The boys began to sense that they were listening to something important. They hung on every word.

‘Extraordinary events are unfolding, and the resolution of these matters is complex and takes time. That is why the Minister of Defence has asked us to carry on as normal, and await further instructions. It does not mean’ – now he was staring intently at the crowd of faces, making direct eye contact with as many as he could – ‘It does not mean that we relax in our training or that we will be relieved of any expectation of service in the future. Am I understood?’

‘Aye aye, sir!’

The Old Man continued. ‘Gentlemen, there is something else that you need to understand.’ He looked intently at them, to ensure they were paying attention. ‘The Navy is not called the “senior service” for nothing. Within the service, there exists a Regular Navy, a Naval Reserve, a Volunteer Reserve, even a Supplementary Reserve, and each force is defined according to a strict hierarchy in which we Volunteer Reservists are near the bottom.’

He paused, again for effect, and took a draught of water from his glass.

‘You should know that during the last war’ – he looked back at his senior officers, several of whom were nodding sagely – ‘members of the Reserve finished up serving in the trenches! Indeed, I believe General Freyberg, who is to command our army, commanded a regiment of the Naval Division which fought at Gallipoli and on the Western front!’

Palmer let the gravity of what he had told them sink in. Among those on the podium, one or two were now looking at the floor, not nodding but shaking their heads. The boys murmured among themselves. Tim and Len looked at one another, frowning. What was the Old Man getting at?

‘The simple fact of the matter was, while during the Great War we had a trained Reserve, we did not have the boats!’

Some of the boys laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. Len, on the other hand, thought it grotesque, and immediately thought the Commander was preparing them for the worst: for the possibility they would become some appendage of the army, or some land-based fighting unit.

‘Do not worry, gentlemen. This would be a most unlikely outcome at this present moment in time.’

‘Yeah, but he hasn’t said it won’t happen,’ whispered Tim out the side of his mouth.

‘It won’t happen because we need you now more than ever. We need you now more than ever because, against my advice, the Minister disestablished List 2. So now, when we most need trained and experienced people, hundreds of skilled Navy Reservists have been let go. No longer with us. “Surplus to requirements”!’

The Commander spat out the last three words – the phrase invoked by the Minister in 1936 to justify the termination of List 2 – waving his finger in the air. He walked slowly across the podium then turned and walked back again. Len sensed a struggle for control. Then the Commander refocussed and engaged with them once more, looking at length and carefully at the crowd of faces, every one of which looked keenly back at him.

‘Now some of you – many of you – will doubtless find yourselves serving in remote places, absorbed into the Royal Navy and given tasks that you will find unfamiliar and challenging. Do not lose sight of who you are. You are New Zealanders. You are practical men, and you will adapt. Whatever happens in the future, do not lose faith, gentlemen. Do not abandon your commitment. Take pride in your uniform. It tells everybody that we are volunteers. We are the Wavy Navy. If all else fails – heaven forbid – you will find everybody will be looking to you for their salvation. Do not disappoint me. The truth is, you young men are more important than ever. You are the future of what we all hope’ – here he gestured towards the men who sat behind him – ‘we all hope will one day be a Royal New Zealand Navy.’

There was absolute silence once more, as the boys contemplated exactly what was being implied. Commander Palmer raised his voice. ‘So you will leave this assembly and dedicate yourselves to being the best you can be, no matter when or where you find yourselves. Am I understood?’

‘Aye aye, sir!’

‘You will train your hardest, and, when called upon, you will acquit yourselves to the best of your considerable abilities.’

Lofty nudged his two mates at the compliment.

‘You will make this country proud. Am I understood?’

‘Aye aye, sir!’

‘Thank you, gentlemen. God bless you all.’

The Chief Petty Officer stood and called the assembly to order: ‘Ten ’hut!’

The boys leapt to their feet and sprang to attention.

Palmer stared at his charges briefly, then spun on his heel, left the podium and strode off down the hall behind and disappeared from sight.

The boys were given brief instructions to report as usual according to standing orders, and were summarily dismissed. They did not disperse, and instead hung around in small groups, animatedly discussing what their commander had said. By the time Len got home, it was late. He found his mother in the kitchen keeping his dinner warm in the oven. He ate alone and in silence, and his mother said nothing.

★ ★ ★

Len’s signing up had thrust change upon the family, and family life changed further when Bill was drafted into an artillery unit. Both he and Len found themselves engrossed in the routines of training, while all around them – in conversation, in the newspapers, in the streets, in rail yards and on the wharves – the tempo of activity rose to meet the increasing challenge of organising men and material. The boys found themselves among the ever-growing number of servicemen appearing on city streets, proudly conscious of their uniformed appearance. Len and Lofty, the short and the tall, often found reason to walk down Queen Street in their ‘Number Ones’, formal dress uniform, to be flattered in no small way by the comments of passers-by. One refrain in particular became familiar: ‘Good on yer, mate.’

When Len looked to see who was offering these compliments, he was struck by the fact that many – no, most – were probably survivors of the Great War. But it was the sideways glances and glistening smiles of young women that the boys found particularly engaging. Once they were grabbed in passing outside Milne’s, where a street photographer had his pitch, and had to accede to being photographed with a group of young women who thought a couple of uniformed sailor boys ideal props. Who were they to refuse?

★ ★ ★

For naval personnel the period became known as the ‘Mobilisation Fiasco’. As the lengthy mobilisation procedures ran their course, the boy sailors, unwitting victims, continued to train. Tim called it ‘the gestation’.

In spite of the fact that the New Zealand Division got only a modest share of Royal Naval resources, the young men at Ngapona thrived on training with what they were given, and were gaining all the confidence and self-reliance they needed to succeed as seamen. They had their heroes. Len’s personal hero was Frank Worsley from Akaroa, Captain of the Endurance, who had navigated a small boat for over two weeks across nearly a thousand miles of violent Southern Ocean to save the life and reputation of Ernest Shackleton and ensure the rescue of his crew. Whenever Len was out on the water and the weather got nasty, he thought of Frank Worsley. William Sanders was another hero. His daring exploits in his Q-ship Prize in the Great War expressed exactly the spirit of adventure and lack of convention that characterised the average New Zealander, in Len’s mind. He was the only New Zealander awarded the naval Victoria Cross, and the boy sailors of Ngapona held him in great esteem. When Len discovered there was a memorial plaque and a bust of Sanders hidden in a modest niche in the entrance to the Auckland Town Hall, he took Tim and Lofty to see it.

Within three months of the outbreak of war, part of the First New Zealand Echelon had departed for Britain, followed by the main group in January 1940, totalling over 6500 officers and men. Conversation around the dinner table turned over these subjects, and the family tracked the progress of that first convoy through the necessarily vague newspaper reports on a small school atlas.

Surprisingly it wasn’t Bill but Len who received his orders first. After all the months of routine training and frustrating rumours being circulated, Len, Lofty, Tim and their friends suddenly found themselves called to muster.

Len sensed the occasion when he arrived at the bottom of Franklin Road to see a stream of other young sailors hurrying across Victoria Park towards Ngapona to be handed a mobilisation order. Everybody got one. No one was left out. The Reserve was to be included in the Second Echelon, and would be departing within weeks. Furthermore, all the boys, Len and Tim included, found they had been designated as candidates for Scheme B, which offered a commission to experienced yachtsmen if they succeeded in satisfying the standards. Being nineteen, Len was at the bottom of the age requirement for potential officer training, which would be lengthy. In truth, Len wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted, but both Kate and Arthur were deeply impressed. Strangely, when the mobilisation slips were distributed, the anticipated elation among the boys turned into something quite unexpected. Most of the glamour around those who left on the first echelon had subsided, and while many were relieved at the clarity if nothing else, others were subdued, and a number were silent. Len turned amid the desultory atmosphere of half cheers and one or two flying hats to catch Tim’s eye. They shook hands and patted each other on the shoulder.

‘Good on you, mate!’

‘Good luck, mate.’

‘Yeah, good luck, eh?’

At home, things shifted in equal measure. When Len’s brother, Bill, received mobilisation orders the excitement and the glamour amounted to nothing, and home became a sombre place, the atmosphere almost depressed.

Bill knew he was called Bill after a late uncle, but as younger boys, he and Len had been largely shielded from the truth behind their four uncles’ wartime experiences, though small objects and memorabilia tucked away on mantle shelves pricked their curiosity, and hushed conversations about poor Jack, poor Bill or poor Charlie similarly attracted their interest. Now, when the boys were in uniform, about to embark, and talking about their future, the family’s experiences of the Great War began to insinuate themselves into conversation. The brothers were taken into the confidence of their elders; they listened to previously undisclosed realities, too painful or grievous to have ever been mentioned before.

Kate fussed about the kitchen, busied herself weeding the vegetable garden or stood endlessly stoking and stirring the copper in the wash house. Arthur, as always, tended to silence, sitting on the steps to his basement workshop with the sun on his back, concentrating hard on the delicate art of rolling a cigarette. His health had prevented him from service in the Great War, and he felt inadequate, thinking himself unable to offer experience and therefore reassurance to his sons. So it helped when Kate’s brother Ree came for dinner. Uncle Ree steadied the mood. He also brought experience to the table, having served in the Australian Imperial Forces during the Great War, a little Māori among a host of lanky Aussies.

When Kate and Joy retreated into the kitchen after dinner to wash the dishes, the men stayed at the table, and at low volume Ree conducted a practical commentary on military matters that was largely focussed on how to avoid risk.

‘Just you remember, keep your head down. The first rule in the military is you don’t volunteer for anything. Nothing. Leave that for heroes.’

He sipped his tea.

‘Most of the heroes are dead,’ muttered Arthur.

Ree nodded, and took another sip. The tea was hot.

‘Your other uncles were the real heroes. Jack killed on the first day at Gallipoli, poor Charlie on the last day of combat. Bill at Messines. Not me.’ He knocked on his artificial leg. ‘I was just lucky.’

‘What’s it really like? The combat, I mean.’ Len asked.

Arthur sat quietly smoking, nodding occasionally when Ree invoked the names of the brothers who hadn’t returned. Ree looked at his nephews. He had forgotten Len was still teenaged.

‘You in the Navy, son? And you the artillery?’ He was looking now at Bill. ‘With any luck you’ll never find out.’

He adjusted himself in his chair.

‘Words don’t describe it.’

This time he coughed. None of it was coming easily. Len watched, embarrassed, as tears welled up in the older man’s eyes. Ree blinked several times to control them, then took a draught from his teacup and gazed reflectively into the distance.

Len offered a plate of Kate’s biscuits.

‘You know, apart from your uncles there have been other warriors in this family.’ He took a biscuit. ‘One of them is in that picture in the hall.’

‘You mean Titore and Ururoa, in the war canoes?’ Len asked him.

‘That’s right, my boy. Ururoa was your great-grandfather. He was feared in battle but died in old age. Make sure you do the same.’

The conversation went on, with openness and frankness, as it might have among old comrades. It was also the first time the subject of their being Māori had been raised in front of the boys. Len, Bill and Joy had all grown to understand that being Māori carried a certain stigma in some people’s eyes. It was a penalty that could be avoided by adopting Pākehā ways. Certainly for their mother and uncle, being Māori had been subsumed by their Pākehā upbringing, as Ree explained.

‘My father – your mother’s father – Richard Heke was Māori. He died in a forest accident before I was born. Mum – your grandmother – married again, into the O’Donnell family. That’s where the Pākehā uncles came from, and why your mother and I were brought up as Pākehā.’

Len thought for a moment and was forced to acknowledge that, apart from skin colour, there had been nothing in their lives that had spoken of Maori heritage. Until now. He was keen to learn more, and had other questions, but Kate entered the room just then, and the subject quickly changed. Later, when Arthur walked Ree to the front gate, Len went to look at the picture in the hall again, and stood in front of it wondering. Which of the tattooed warriors staring back at him was Ururoa?

★ ★ ★

Shortly after his mobilisation, Len received notice to join the Wakakura in order to complete his training with time at sea. Going to sea had always been the goal, especially as the only pay accorded Reservists was for time actually spent on board a Royal Naval ship. But those condemned to the Wakakura typically finished up wishing otherwise as it had a bad reputation as a sea boat. Lofty Neville had had a famously harrowing voyage on the Wakakura, an exercise in foul weather made worse by the fact that the only catering supplied was tinned herring, served cold. Len had a similar experience, on a voyage that took him down the east coast of the North Island and terminated in Wellington. There, he was ordered to report to the training establishment Olphert for a briefing, and joined the local Reserve complement posing for a formal photograph. By the time he returned to Auckland, his embarkation was imminent.

The day before Len was due to depart, while he was sitting on the porch having a cup of tea with his parents, Jack Hulbert came up the driveway on a bicycle. Kate fetched an extra cup. Jack had ridden from Epsom to tell them that he had been selected for hydrographic work and posted to Morewa.

Arthur was deeply impressed. Like everybody in Auckland, he knew the private sailing yacht that belonged to Sir Ernest Davis. It was one of the smartest on the harbour, and the envy of many.

‘How the heck did you get a job like that?’ asked Len.

‘It was the sailing, I reckon. I know most of the blokes. They’ve seconded Morewa for naval service as a survey vessel, charting the seabed. For harbour defence. You know, safe passage, anti-submarine defence and things like that.’

‘Half your luck, Jack, Well done,’ Len paused, then added, ‘I s’pose that means you won’t be coming tomorrow?’

Len’s rueful look belied the goodwill he felt for his mate. He would miss Jack, and the friendship and trust they had built together, and he was going to miss the Swift, the mullet boats and the Gulf.

‘No. They said I might have to go to Fiji, but I’ll definitely be sent to England for training.’

When tea was over and it was time for Jack to leave, the two mates shook hands at the gate.

‘Good luck, Len. When all this is over we’ll go sailing again.’

‘I’ll look forward to that. See you then.’

‘Not if I see you first,’ said Jack. Then he slapped his mate on the shoulder and rode off towards Epsom.

★ ★ ★

Len managed to sleep well, and woke to find his neatly ironed uniform hanging from the wardrobe door and a tantalising aroma wafting down the hallway into his room. When Ordinary Seaman L B Hill appeared at the dining table, he found his mother had prepared a lavish breakfast, and he sat down to bacon and eggs, tomatoes and fried bread, tea and toast. As he ate, he thought about what was in front of him – a great adventure; the great adventure. Behind him he felt a weight – the weight of responsibility perhaps – to his mother, to his father. To Ree, and to the dead uncles he had never known.

His thinking was interrupted by Kate’s frequent solicitations.

‘Have you got enough singlets?’ she asked. ‘It gets very cold in England in winter.’

‘Yes, Mum. I’ve got enough singlets, thank you.’

‘And keep your socks dry. You’ll get a chill very easily if you don’t.’

Across the table Bill winked at him, and Len responded with raised eyebrows. Joy smiled at her brothers’ conspiracy. Arthur arrived and sat in silence, concentrating unnaturally on his breakfast. He placed a writing pad and a bundle of envelopes on the table and pushed them purposefully towards Len.

‘You’d better not forget to write to your mother.’

‘I won’t, Dad. Thanks.’ Len looked back across the table to his father and nodded.

‘Good on you, son.’

It was a rare affirmation.

Kate herself sat and watched Len as he finished a slice of toast covered in orange marmalade before draining his cup for the last time.

He went to the bathroom. He gazed at himself in the mirror and let the water run over his clasped hands for a few moments. He could hear his mother through the wall, cleaning up in the kitchen. Arthur was already outside, his cigarette smoke wafting back into the house. Len went back into the dining room and cast his eyes around and down the hall of the villa. Kate came out of the kitchen and they hugged, in a way neither had had cause to before.

‘God bless, son. Stay safe. Be strong.’

He kissed his mother on the cheek and gave her hand a final squeeze. His kitbag lay on the veranda settee, where he had left it. He picked up his hat and, with both hands, placed it carefully and squarely on his head, then turned to face Kate and came to something like attention.

‘Ordinary Seaman Leonard Hill, reporting for duty, Ma’am.’

Kate smiled at last. Joy had tears on her cheeks and stifled a sob as she held her little brother tightly for a moment. Bill stepped forward and shook hands with Len. He slapped his little brother on the shoulder.

‘Good luck, Lenny. Look after yourself.’

‘I’ll be doing my best.’ Picking up his kit, Len raised it straight to his shoulder, and walked down the steps. Arthur waited at the bottom.

‘I’ll be home shortly, Kate,’ he called to his wife, but there was no reply. The two men walked down the drive and out the gate. Len looked back and saw his mother standing behind the lace in the bay window of her bedroom. She was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, while she watched the two men walk down the street.

★ ★ ★

As they walked up Kowhai Street, Len heard their reclusive neighbour playing the piano. ‘Für Elise’. It was an odd song to march to. Neighbours who knew of Len’s departure came outside to add their farewells.

When they reached Dominion Road, Arthur offered to carry the kit, but Len laughed. ‘It’s all right, Dad. The thing’s heavier than it looks.’

And too heavy for the old man, he thought. Kate had slipped a tin of biscuits into it the night before, but mostly, of course, it was clothes.

The Mount Eden railway station wasn’t far away, and as they got closer the foot traffic heading in the same direction became heavier, with many men in uniform. When their train clanked slowly into the Central Railway Station, it became apparent that the mobilisation had begun in earnest. A mass of people was converging on the main platform. There, two steam engines were attached to the front of a long line of carriages. As Len and his father got down from their train, they watched men begin to congregate in groups, directed by others to assemble in areas adjacent to their assigned carriages. Len could see some distant shapes in naval uniform collecting towards the head of the train. He turned to look at his father. Arthur had seen them too.

‘You’d better go, son. Don’t forget to write to your mother.’

Len nodded. He put his kitbag down and faced his father. The train gave three long blasts on its whistle, and groups of men immediately began to move in different directions. The two men shook hands, Arthur putting his free hand on Len’s shoulder.

‘Be careful, son,’ he said.

‘Wish me luck, Dad,’ Len replied, but in the hubbub, Arthur didn’t hear; he had already turned and was walking away.

Len made his way to the other end of the platform, forcing his way through the mob, guided by the tall form of Lofty in the distance. He raised his hand and saw Lofty semaphore an acknowledgement with his eyebrows. Tim arrived, forcing his way through the crowd. A smear of lipstick was visible on the corner of his mouth. Then the sailors were called to form up and answer the roll. The hubbub was soon replaced by a quieter atmosphere, punctuated by the commands of the non-commissioned officers, and slowly various groups began to board the train.

★ ★ ★

The journey to Wellington went without incident, as long as you overlooked lengthy delays at Frankton Junction and Taumarunui, and again at Palmerston North. The delay at Frankton was caused by the late arrival of members of the newly formed Māori Battalion. They caused quite a stir, laughing and singing as they made their way in what could only be described as loose order to their carriage. By the time the train began to climb onto the central plateau, it was late afternoon and except for Len and one or two others, most in the carriage had fallen asleep, lulled by the intersecting rhythms of sound and movement. Sometimes music from a lone guitar would drift on the wind from the carriage carrying the Māori soldiers, but otherwise the noise of the train dominated. At Raurimu, where the track famously spirals up the incline to a higher elevation, Len was able to look across the valley at the rear of the train following slowly behind. The smell of coal smoke swept over the carriages at times, reminding Len of home. Arthur brought coal home from the Gas Company, and sometimes coke. As they crossed the plateau, the volcanos came into view. Tongariro. Ngauruhoe. Ruapehu, the highest, steaming away on the near horizon. As the sun began to set, the mountains were caught in its lengthening rays, and for a few minutes the snow on the peak of Ruapehu flared in a brilliant orange, before the light faded and eventually extinguished and the sky behind coloured a deep indigo. Len gazed at it all in wonderment. Here were sights he had never seen, and he hadn’t even left the country.

The carriage lights came on, and the others began to stir. The train clattered on. There was hot tea available at each stop, but nothing on board except water. Some, like Len, had their own refreshments, discovering the odd surprise when they reached into their kitbags. His biscuits didn’t last five minutes. In turn, he enjoyed one of Lofty’s egg sandwiches and a huge slice of a fruitcake that Ava had given to Tim. Odd smells wafted from the carriage in front, and one of the boys reported that the Māori were eating barbequed sheep tails, which caused all sorts of uproar and simulated gagging among the sailors. Then someone produced a pack of cards, and before long a flask of whisky was being passed discreetly around. Eventually things quietened again, as the cold penetrated and men huddled into their jackets to catch a little more sleep before the arrival into Wellington. They covered their eyes as best they could against the lights. Only the card players stayed awake.

Things changed as they neared their destination. A few men recognised that the journey was nearing its end and stirred others, and as the sun began to rise, the whole body roused and began to take stock. The train got slower and slower as it made its way around Wellington’s harbour edge. Len had been there before, and struggled to find comfort in the city’s grey water, wind-riven valleys and scrub-covered hills, and struggled all the more this morning as squalls of rain pelted parts of the harbour and low cloud shrouded the hilltops. Nevertheless he joined the crowd in the left-hand side of the carriage from where they could see a great fleet of ships lying at anchor in the one-armed embrace of the Miramar peninsula. Two light cruisers, which turned out to be HMS Leander and HMAS Australia, appeared to be getting up steam, while Empress of Britain, Empress of Japan and Aquitania, requisitioned as troopships, were the largest passenger liners to visit New Zealand. It was an extraordinary sight.

When the train finally stopped, it was somewhat short of the quay. Nevertheless, the men found themselves ordered to disembark and assemble with their kit in marshalling yards. There was momentary chaos as items of kit or uniform were reclaimed as the men got down off the train, clambering over obstacles and tripping over rails, urged on by shouted instructions. Then, one by one, elements were called to attention, turned and marched away in the direction of the wharves, splashing through puddles, until, within minutes, the whole had been dispersed and the hissing train stood empty in a deserted yard.

The column made its way out of the rail yards, across the road and onto the quayside. Outside the rail yards, local units enjoyed the privilege of marching from their places of assembly through the streets of the city to the wharves. Oblivious to the changing conditions, citizens in their hundreds thronged the pavements and anywhere else a view could be had, held back in places by marshals and military police. They clapped enthusiastically and cheered wildly. All movement flowed towards the waterfront, where nearly 7000 soldiers, sailors and other military personnel were moving through various stages of embarkation. Somehow a train had already delivered men to the wharves, and was now being repositioned, empty, graunching and squealing through the crowd, supported by railwaymen with flags standing on its cowcatcher. When the boys from the Reserve marched, they understood that this was no ordinary day. As they reached the wharves, they all thrust out their chests, pulled their shoulders back and raised their chins, to the cheers of all those about them.

On the waterfront they discovered a host of other military personnel drawn up in loose order preparing for embarkation. Behind the Harbour Board fencing, a mass of eager civilians pressed hard against the iron rails, shouting and cheering. In places, some had been allowed to spill onto the quay by compliant gate-keepers, and they hugged or held hands with soldiers who had somehow detached from their units. Len and the Navy boys cast their eyes around as they marched onto the quay. Silent, in contrast to the noise about them, Len contemplated the extraordinariness of the scene. He looked along the rank at Tim, who was gazing up at the ship towering above them. It was at this moment that Len felt fear for the first time. It was a feeling like someone blowing cold air on the back of his neck. It made his hair stand on end and a chill fill his belly.

Apart from the Navy and the RNVR, there were anti-tank regiments, and regiments of infantry and artillery; men from Divisional Cavalry; engineers; and ammunition, supply and petrol companies, as well as 5 Field Ambulance, elements of the New Zealand Dental Corps, No 1 General Hospital, chaplains and the Pay Corps. And of course the 28th Māori Battalion.

The Māori Battalion was a volunteer unit offered by the inspirational Apirana Ngata to the Government as ‘the price of citizenship’. While some people thought that entirely appropriate, most thought it noble. Len smiled in quiet admiration. The battalion had never paraded in front of so large a crowd before, and they captured everybody’s attention. Of all the units, they presented with the most discipline, marching in perfect order, each soldier displaying a steely intensity and a fierce countenance. Every now and then one among them would break character, and turn to survey the faces on the street, to catch an eye, raise an eyebrow and a grin. The crowd seemed to love it, and cheered all the more.

The scale of activity exceeded anything in the boys’ experience. It wasn’t just the host of uniformed men. It was the crowd, the volume of shipping that lay in Wellington’s harbour, and the massive shape of Aquitania, with its four great funnels, tied up to the wharf and looming over most of the scene. When the Reserve personnel drew up in her shadow, it became clear that they, along with what seemed like most of the Echelon, were going to board the huge Cunard liner.

There were shouts of ‘Squad, halt!’ all along the line, then further instructions. ‘Left turn! … Ten ’hut! … Look lively now! People are watching! Right dress!’ When the lines were straight and the shuffling and all movement had ceased, the final command came: ‘Stand easy!’

Standing easy, Len looked up. The side of the liner occupied their whole view: a wall of riveted steel, newly painted in marine camouflage. To left and right, men were streaming up gangways into the vessel. Above, those who had already boarded crowded the rails looking down. Heads appeared at the many portholes: two, three, sometimes four at a time.

And then it was the turn of the Reservists. They shouldered their kitbags and moved to the gangway in loose order before streaming up it in single file. At the top of the gangway, a grey-haired merchant seaman greeted them each with a note describing the whereabouts of their accommodation. ‘Welcome aboard, my son. Port side, E deck, two down. Look lively now. E deck, two down.’

‘Hello, sailor,’ offered Tim.

‘Now, lad, be careful what you wish for.’

Once on board, the boys followed the instructions on the chits they had been given and fought their way down two decks to their assigned berths. Len lost touch with Tim after boarding, and could not even see Lofty. Men were swarming everywhere. He found where he was berthed, and stood dumbfounded. It was a two-berth cabin. Luxury! He dumped his kitbag on the top bunk, and with a couple of others made his way up onto the main deck and forward of the cargo derrick. Being sailors, they anticipated and found a scupper there that was big enough to accommodate all three of them, so they crouched into it and settled to watch their share of the spectacle onshore. Soldiers and sailors lined the rails or jammed portholes, cheering and waving to loved ones embedded in the crowd. Some dangled from unlikely places to gain a view.

Onshore, the crowd waved madly back. A band played. When the ship gave three enormous blasts on its horn, the crowd cringed with shock, then redoubled their cheering. From somewhere on board they heard ‘Now is the Hour’ being sung in Māori. Len had never heard it before, not in Māori, and he listened as others around him, soldiers and sailors, Māori and Pākehā, took up the refrain in either language, some weeping with the emotion of the moment.

Dozens of streamers hung between ship and shore, and as the vessel cast off and the attendant tugs took the slack, these final, fragile points of contact slowly stretched and snapped. As the Aquitania was towed out into the harbour and released, the fervour abated, and those left behind began to disperse and make their way home. Slowly the great vessel picked up speed and made its way through Wellington heads to join the assembling fleet in the straits outside. It was 02 May 1940.

3

Heat

Fremantle is a port town some miles south of Perth. The two huge Cunard liners Aquitania and Queen Mary were unable to tie up in Fremantle itself, their draft being too great, and so sat at moorings in the Gage Roads outside the harbour. The troops on board were seriously alarmed to hear explosions occur periodically around them, and wondered if the war had found them out. They discovered eventually that Naval Auxiliary Patrol vessels were conducting security patrols. They were dropping demolition charges from time to time to deter saboteurs from attaching mines to the troopships. Learning this, the sailors gained their first impression of the lengths the authorities found necessary to protect them.

Everybody had to be ferried to shore, and by the time Len, Lofty and Tim were finally given shore leave, they found the town already swarming with troops, jamming into the many public houses and spilling into the streets. With half a dozen others they found a pub a couple of blocks behind the port area and squeezed themselves into a corner of the main bar. The place had a pervasive odour of stale cigarettes, beer and disinfectant. What seemed like several hundred men were engaged in roaring conversation under a fog of cigarette smoke. Around a leaner near the bar, a group of local wharfies managed to hold their ground, and engaged in talk with some of the servicemen. The challenge of drinking the house dry had been announced, and everybody was enthusiastically pursuing the goal. Except for Len, who sat slumped in his chair, oblivious to the noise. He felt the floor tilt, more than once, as he thought back over the voyage they had just accomplished. Even though the authorities had deemed this second convoy fast, it had taken them over four days just to cross the Tasman, during which time the boys in the Reserve along with the rest of the sailors had had ample opportunity to demonstrate their sea legs.

Len turned down the offer of another beer. While the others had drunk two schooners of Aussie beer each already, he had barely made an impression on his. He had unwillingly signed the pledge as a boy of fourteen, promising to abstain from drinking alcohol, and sat in mortal fear that his mother might discover he was breaking it.

Len watched four Māori soldiers make their way into the bar from the street. As they made to pass the wharfies, the largest of the dock workers loudly exclaimed, ‘What are those black bastards doing in here?’

Shocked, Len waited, ear cocked, for some sort of reaction. Those who did hear fell silent, while elsewhere, fortunately, the noise continued unabated. The soldiers stopped and turned to face their antagonist. A fight seemed imminent. The smallest of the Māori stepped up to the wharfie and looked him in the eye. He said, ‘These black bastards are on their way to war. But we’re going to have a beer first. OK?’

The wharfie was nonplussed by the little man’s unblinking challenge. He sized up the other Māori, three big fellows. One of his own companions nudged him with an elbow, but the wharfie shrugged him away. The moment seemed explosive, then a Kiwi voice from somewhere said, ‘Make that two beers, e hoa.’

There was a burst of laughter. Some soldiers in New Zealand uniform moved towards the bar, barging their way between the two groups, breaking up the confrontation. The little man looked up at his opponent and smiled. Then he raised his eyebrows and turned towards the bar. Behind him, his companions smiled broadly at the group of waterside workers, before they too made for the bar. The wharfies returned to their beers, but not before the big man had cast an eye around the room to gauge the reaction. Except for the group of sailors in the corner, most of the men hadn’t even noticed.

The following morning, Len raised the incident with Tim. ‘What was that stuff last night at the pub? Why did that guy want to have a go? What is it about people here?’

‘Buggered if I know,’ Tim replied. ‘I don’t remember.’

They were all a bit slow after the excesses of the previous night.

Lofty pitched in, ‘Didn’t you short-arses see the sign? Above the front doors it said “No blacks allowed. By order of the Department of Flora and Fauna”.’

‘What?’ said one of the Macs, rising at last to the conversation.

Lofty drew breath deeply and spoke from on high. ‘Aboriginals are not allowed to drink. They’re run by the Department of Parks and Wildlife.’

‘Say that again,’ Tim said.

‘Yeah. They have to wear dog tags, and they’re not allowed to drink,’ Lofty explained. ‘Like animals. Wildlife.’

This equation weighed heavily on the boys.

‘Jesus. Who told you that?’ Len asked, a little stunned. It was the first time he had ever taken the Lord’s name in vain. His mother would have belted him.

‘One of the Māori boys. They negotiated their way around the problem by pointing out they were only brown.’

It hurt to laugh. Their heads still ached.

★ ★ ★

The convoy, the US3, departed Fremantle on 12 May, heading for Colombo and the Suez Canal. Even the boys found the early going nauseating, but eventually they found their sea legs again. On 15 May, both convoys received new instructions, and changed course for South Africa. Rumours flew. Circumstances in Europe were shifting rapidly. The Suez Canal was threatened, Italy was inevitably going to stand beside fascist Germany and the Mediterranean was becoming dangerous. With the safety and wellbeing of thousands of troops at stake, the convoys would now be going to Britain the long way, via Cape Town and Freetown in Liberia.

At sea, life aboard the Aquitania had developed a certain routine. At ease, there was a barber’s shop on board, as well as a theatre and a library. A newspaper was produced, and entertainment organised. Most of those on board, the ordinary rank and file, kept a close ear to the news broadcasts that were relayed to the ships. Lofty, trained in Signals and stationed on the ship’s bridge, was able to supply an endless commentary about what was happening across the convoy. When tea was served on the bridge and the Signalman was included, Lofty stood against the glass holding up his mug, making sure his mates on deck below could see him having tea with the Captain. Broadly speaking, the men were aware that events in Europe were changing, and for the worse. This fuelled conversation, especially at mealtimes. Everyone received three meals a day from the ship’s galleys, rotating through sittings at tables of four or eight in a wood-panelled dining room. It was very civilized; a far cry from cold herring and fighting for a place in the mess on Wakakura.

Lofty complained, though. The tables were too low to accommodate his long legs, which stuck out sideways, like cupboard doors.

‘Bastard tables,’ he would say as he wedged himself in on arrival and extricated himself on departure. It turned out he had been assigned an eight-berthed cabin, too, which was way too many arms and legs for him. ‘Bastard cabin’ was another of his regular expletives.

He compensated for his frustration at mealtimes by using his enormous reach to snatch food from under the noses of his tablemates and anybody else in range. He ate like a horse. The last available seat at mealtimes was always next to Lofty.

For Len, the dining room and its comfortable atmosphere was another reminder of his mother and home, but he didn’t let on. It wasn’t that he was homesick, but any sign of sentimentality or wishful thinking about home, mothers or girlfriends was viewed as weakness and triggered merciless teasing and mockery. Tim relished this sort of combat, invoking Ava’s name frequently, then inviting all his critics to eat their hearts out. He would taunt them, ‘Just ’cause the closest you’ve ever got to a real woman was your mother!’

Len did most of his thinking lying on his bunk each night. His thoughts led him through an increasingly familiar labyrinth. Every corner he turned revealed an irreconcilable doubt against which he struggled. Would he meet the standard – not just the training standard but the standard laid down by the Old Man? Yes, he would. What would real combat be like? He could only imagine. Would he perform well? He had no idea. Did he have the discipline and the physical resilience to succeed? He would do his best.

As the ship rolled and pitched in the ocean swell and the engines thumped and the propellers shuddered, he came to the most frightening doubt of all – between the distant poles of skill and luck, would he survive? His three uncles hadn’t but Ree had, albeit minus a leg. And Tim’s belief in survival seemed inalienable. ‘We’re smaller than the average target,’ he would say. ‘And Lofty might be tall, but he’s bloody skinny.’

If he was fortunate, Len would fall asleep at this point. Sometimes, he didn’t.

★ ★ ★

Things were entirely different during daylight hours. There were fitness exercises and weapons drills for everybody, soldier and sailor. They had instruction in gunnery. Other units could be observed in some sort of training, or jogging around the decks in tight circles. Whatever the Māori troops were engaged in, exercising or stripping and reassembling their weapons, they could always be heard laughing and singing.

Then there was boxing. There was a ring erected on the main deck, and everybody was expected to go a couple of rounds during the rotation of physical exercises. Shortly after they left Fremantle, a notice appeared on the ship’s noticeboard announcing a tournament, and inviting competitors to put their names forward. Tim put his name down without hesitation. The first name on the list was Māori: Haami Parata.

On the day of the tournament, the list of participants was posted, and Tim had drawn Parata in the very first match. Len seized a place under the ropes and watched as his mate climbed into the ring, followed by his opponent. They both recognised the smiling Parata as the combative little bloke they had seen in the pub at Fremantle. While he paraded up and down the ringside closest to his mates, with his arms raised in mock triumph, Tim stood passively by the ropes and assessed his opponent. While he himself was lean and fit, Parata was broad in the shoulders and thighs, and, Len knew, he would have a lower centre of gravity. He would be hard to knock down. Not that Tim had a knock-out punch, Len thought, as he watched Tim standing there in his headgear with his over-sized singlet hanging from his shoulders. What he did have was fast hands, and he was nimble and seemed able to out-box bigger opponents.

At the bell the two touched gloves, and Parata immediately started talking, smiling all the time. ‘OK, white boy. Let’s see what you’re made of, eh?’

Parata was quick himself. Tim failed to see his opponent’s first punch – a swift left jab that sat him straight down on his backside. As Tim climbed back to his feet, Len heard the whoops and giggles of the Māori over the shouting crowd, and shouted some advice to his friend:

‘Keep moving, mate, keep moving. And keep your guard up!’

Then Tim seemed to decide a more scientific approach would be prudent, adopting a defensive posture and moving to the right, away from Parata’s left hand. Parata proved aggressive, and twice caught Tim with right hooks that he didn’t see coming and which had the ref send him to his corner before he was allowed to box on. Each time it happened, Parata turned to bask in the adulation of his battalion, and each time Tim came back out of his corner to surprise his opponent with clever combinations – jabbing left, left, left-right-left, left, then a right uppercut when Parata sought to clinch. The crowd loved it: especially the Māori, who roared louder even when their mate was on the receiving end. Tim continued to move right, making Parata turn to the left, preventing him from getting full value out of his left jab and forcing him to overreach with his right. By the end of the two rounds Tim’s experience was showing, and the little Māori wasn’t smiling so much, but the ref called it a draw, to the irritation of a number of men who had clearly bet on the outcome.

That evening Len was sitting after dinner with Lofty and Tim and one of the McVinnies when Haami Parata and two of his big mates dragged a couple of chairs over to their table and sat down. Haami and Tim shook hands, and there were introductions and much eyebrow-raising. One of the Māori looked at the sailors’ uniforms. ‘Didn’t know you fullas could box.’

‘I’ve had a bit of practice,’ Tim said.

‘You did OK,’ Haami said, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘For a Pākehā.’

The combat was still going on.

Tim replied, ‘Our Māori doesn’t box.’

‘Doesn’t look like there’s any Māori in this unit,’ Haami said.

But Tim nodded, in an exaggerated manner, and slowly turned towards Len.

There was a moment’s silence while everybody turned and looked at him. Under his tan, Len reddened.

‘What makes you think I’m Māori?’ he said clumsily, and saw the Māori stiffen. ‘I mean, how do you know I’m Māori?’

‘I saw your mother at the Victoria Park revue, remember? All dressed up, but she still looked pretty Māori to me.’

Haami turned to Tim, who acknowledged his offence by holding up his hands in mock surrender.

Now the questions came fast, and each one put Len further into a unique predicament.

‘You really Māori, mate?’ This was from Lofty, confused.

‘You don’t look like much of a Māori to me, e hoa,’ said one of Haami’s mates.

‘Must be part Māori, eh.’

‘I am part-Māori.’

‘Oh yeah? Which part?’

The Māori hooted with laughter, but Len had never felt so confronted. At home, the question was irrelevant. Ever since he could remember, everyone in his family had walked, talked and behaved like a Pākehā. The one anomaly had been Kate’s coffee-coloured skin – and Ree’s, of course. Otherwise the question of identity had never arisen; until, that is, the conversation with Ree. Then there were the incidents involving Bill at the Enlistment Centre. Bill had told him about them on the night of the parade of inspection, after the family had got home from watching Len’s performance. His brother had attempted to intercede on behalf of a Māori bloke in a fight that had broken out with a couple of Pākehā. The Māori had given him a black eye, thinking he was on the side of the Pākehā. Then the recruitment officer had challenged Bill about declaring himself ‘European’.

‘European? You’re Māori, aren’t you? Why have you written down European?’

At this point Bill became furious at being challenged about who he was, and the interviewer wisely backed away, satisfying himself by writing ‘swarthy’ on Bill’s enlistment card. Bill learned a lesson, deciding then and there that there were no half measures. It was all or nothing, and he avoided the subject ever after. For Len, the predicament was just emerging.

‘This is a can of worms, mate, but it’s not my problem.’ So saying, Lofty got up, slowly unwinding to his full height. As he did, one of the Māori looked him up and down, and spoke to the others in a low voice.

‘What did he say?’ demanded Lofty, looking at Haami.

‘He said you’re tall.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, what he actually said was, “Clouds always gather around the tallest mountain”.’

Lofty looked bemused, so Parata elaborated. ‘Think of it as a compliment.’

Lofty shook his head and walked away.

‘So what are ya?’

This was one of Haami’s mates, staring at Len. It was more of a taunt than a question. It was a challenge. Staring at the tabletop, Len struggled to answer, shaking his head in disbelief. He was suddenly angry beyond words.

Haami stood up. ‘Whakamā!’ He slapped Len on the shoulder hard, man to man. He forced him to look at him in the eye. ‘Don’t let the shame eat you up, e hoa. Kia kaha.’

Then Haami walked away, jerking his head at his mates to indicate that they should follow. The others slipped away too, and in a short time only Tim remained.

‘Sorry, Lenny, I didn’t mean to drop you in it. I didn’t know it mattered.’

Len nodded.

‘It never mattered before.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It’s beginning to matter now, though.’

That night he lay on his bunk wide awake, rolling from side to side with the ship’s motion, searching for resolution. The fan kept pinging against its protective cover, and somewhere a cupboard door banged open and shut, open and shut.

So far, he had never had to make a choice between Māori or European, but he saw now that there was no middle ground, no possibility of being both. Yet that was exactly where he now found himself. In between. Standing with a foot in each culture he began to realise that a choice was being thrust upon him.

★ ★ ★

On 26 May, the people of Cape Town awoke to find the huge convoy berthing, all except for the Queen Mary and the Aquitania, which, again because of their size, were obliged to berth a few miles away at Simon’s Town. There was a fair amount of frustration on board the Aquitania before arrangements were made for the men to go ashore, where the boys made a beeline for the train and headed into Cape Town. To their delight they found the citizens made much of the presence of the New Zealanders. There were dances, cricket matches, home visits and barbeques or braai. The Māori concert party had been marvellous entertainers during the voyage, and now their rousing efforts in Cape Town thrilled the locals. They brought the house down with their massive haka. Len was not the only person disturbed by this. The enthusiasm with which the Māori were received contrasted fiercely with what he and others saw was the experience of the local African and coloured people. Here, the coloured people were the majority by far, yet there were signs everywhere, in shops, in parks, on transport, that placed restrictions on them. The racial divide was far more obvious than it had been in Australia.

Over the next five days a huge amount of activity occurred around the US3. HMAS Australia departed to join the hunt for the German battleship Gneisenau in the North Atlantic. The aircraft carrier Hermes arrived to provide air cover, accompanied by several cruisers and a number of destroyers. The Governments of Australia and New Zealand had asserted their authority, and were providing significant protection for the convoy before it entered the Atlantic.

The five days passed very quickly. On 31 May US3 departed, heading for Freetown.

At first, the cool of the South Atlantic prevailed. Big swells were swept by wind gusts, and the white caps that tumbled down the wave fronts were occasionally whipped up into the air and flung in fine spray over anybody exposed on deck. Being sailors, Len and the boys did not shy from a bit of spray, and enjoyed congregating on deck and leaning into the wind. How Len wished to be actually on the water though, instead of sitting high above it.

As US3 tracked north to West Africa, things changed. When they entered the tropics the heat and humidity intensified again. When not exercising, the men lay about on bunks or anywhere where shade and breeze might coincide, bellyaching about the conditions. Lofty announced he was volunteering for service in the Arctic; that he’d earned it after tolerating heat that rendered even Tim speechless.

One night Len went topside, in search of cooler air. There were plenty of others doing the same thing, but he knew of a spot under a lifeboat and beside the ship’s rail that was both cool and private. He had no sooner crept under the lifeboat and relaxed with the breeze on his face than somebody else crawled under beside him.

Haami Parata!

‘I saw you disappear. Nice spot.’

Len lifted his eyebrows in response, and moved a little bit to make more room for the visitor. Together they sat watching the Aquitania’s wake colliding with the waves and listening to the sound, as long swooshing gestures of foam glowed briefly in the night, and spume sprayed up into the air like snowflakes, before fading and disappearing into the gloom. They could feel the vibration of the engines under their backsides, and the odd shudder when a big swell brought the screws close to the surface.

The soldier offered the sailor a cigarette.

‘I wanted to apologise, e hoa. I didn’t mean to cause you more shame the other day.’

‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

Len knew exactly what he meant, but it wasn’t shame he felt rising now. It was anger. And it wasn’t about being Māori. It wasn’t even about being part Māori, which was more accurate. His anger was about not knowing. How ignorant could a man be, not knowing himself? After the conversation with Ree, and especially since the encounter with Haami Parata and his mates after the tournament, he had begun to consider how things that might have been Māori might have shown up in his life without him ever recognising it. There were Kate’s skills as a healer and a gardener. She could conjure up a poultice out of anything to make stone bruises disappear, and could grow anything on the terraces she had fashioned at the bottom of the garden. In spite of having told them she was brought up as a Pākehā, she could name birds – all birds – in Māori. The list went on.

‘I think you do. It’s called whakamā. Shame. We all feel it. Or felt it. At some point all Māori are shamed for being Māori, or are ashamed of being Māori; for not measuring up, as my Pākehā teacher used to say. But me: I got over it. I’m not measuring myself by Pākehā standards any more. I don’t want to be the same. Just equal.’

‘I don’t know I’m ashamed of being Māori. Although some of the boys try to shame me, now they know, calling me fulla. “Hey, fulla!” I just keep quiet.’

‘Now that is whakamā! You’re embarrassed by it. Own up! Kia kaha. Stand strong!’

‘But I didn’t know! I certainly didn’t know how much it mattered to everybody else.’

‘Don’t worry, e hoa; every Māori finds that out sooner or later.’

Haami dragged deeply on his cigarette.

‘You know the word Māori means “ordinary man”; at least, that’s what it means in Māori. It is one of the great ironies that we are treated like strangers in our own land.’

They fell to silence, the motion of the ship lulling them both into reflection. Len caught a glimpse of his companion as his cigarette glowed: a broad, strong profile, nut brown and weathered. Parata was perhaps ten years older than he was.

Parata quizzed Len on his family circumstances, and as they sailed through the night, he learned about Arthur, Kate, his brother Bill and the uncles in the Great War.

‘Tūmatauenga is a voracious god. He feeds on people.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘The sacrifice of your uncles brought your family great mana.’

Len knew the word, but didn’t know what it meant.

‘Honour. Respect. Authority. When my father went away as a pioneer in the Great War, he was not allowed to carry a rifle.’ He blew smoke in a long, concentrated stream. ‘There was no honour in that. That is why I joined the Battalion: to recover some of that mana. Now we are given rifles and told fortune favours the brave! Ha! Māori know how to fight, and we have a similar phrase. Kia mate ururoa kei mate wheke. Better to fight like a shark than an octopus. If I die in battle at least they can say that of me. Aue!’

Len had recognised one of Haami’s words immediately.

‘What does ururoa mean?’

‘Ururoa? It means shark.’

‘I know of someone with that name. He doesn’t sound like a very nice person.’

‘Maybe not,’ replied Haami. ‘But he does sound like a person to be respected.’

They lit another cigarette, and Haami continued the conversation.

Like most Māori, he had been employed by the Government, on an East Coast sheep station. A remote part of the North Island, and rugged. He worked for the Department of Lands and Survey as a farm labourer, doing fencing, mustering, docking, shearing – all of the essential tasks.

‘Apart from my mother, the thing I miss most is my horse,’ Haami told Len.

Len laughed.

‘Don’t you bloody tell anybody that!’

They both laughed. Haami continued his story. Like many Ngāti Porou, his whānau had been dutiful citizens, and fought as kūpapa during the Land Wars. This did not protect them from the confiscations, though; they had been dispossessed of their land in spite of their loyalty to the Government. Like most Māori deprived of their greatest asset, they struggled at the bottom of the food chain, quite literally, queuing at the grocer’s with their social security money, deferring to Pākehā not out of courtesy but out of shame and embarrassment. Len thought of his own mother at the shops, patiently waiting at the back of the queue while others gladly took advantage.

‘What about getting your own farm?’

‘Wake up, e hoa! Where do I get the money? I don’t have any assets, and bugger all income. Jeez, you fullas live in a dream.’

Len was chastened, remembering how hard it had been for his own family to make ends meet. Both dragged on their cigarettes.

‘Sorry, mate.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I was glad to come into the army. In uniform everybody’s equal. You can look a man in the eye. It’s a chance to earn some respect and recover some mana. Ngata is right about the price of citizenship. He wants to turn the tables, embarrass the Government. At least that’s what I think. He’s right. If we fight and die for the country, we deserve to be taken seriously. No more digging bloody holes on somebody else’s farm.’

Conditions were freshening. They sat for a while in silence, shielding their cigarettes, letting the breeze take care of their damp clothing, gazing into the darkness looking for signs of their escorts and the other vessels in the convoy, ducking and diving at speed through the night.

Over the course of what remained of the voyage, they met many times, and during their conversations Haami shared much of his tikanga with his young friend. Len listened and learned. Every time Haami used a Māori word, Len asked him what it meant, and, little by little, he began to understand some of the beliefs and practices that distinguished Māori. He was surprised to learn from Haami that the haka was only the beginning of a ritual, a necessary challenge to declare identity and intent, after which people ideally became more congenial. He got used to his mentor invoking proverbs to illustrate his point. He smiled at the imagery, but came quickly to respect their aptness and their universality. Many of them had equivalents in English. Haami as a toa invoked martial words and images more often than not, and Len began to see the subtle and remarkably appropriate ambiguities in the language. While toa meant ‘warrior’, it also meant ‘brave’. Len learned the meaning of niwha, grit or fortitude, and about the fear that had gripped him, called wehi, which he was told he would have to harness if he was to make himself stronger. He struggled to remember most of it. But of all the whakataukī Haami invoked, ‘Kia mate ururoa kei mate wheke’ stayed in his mind. As a warrior’s dictum, it was obvious and compelling, and Len soon saw it as an expression of cultural determinism. But it went further than that, deeper, expressing succinctly the growing internal debate around personal identity that he knew he would have to deal with, one way or another, sooner or later. The question he kept asking himself was ‘how?’

★ ★ ★

As they entered the South Atlantic, the voyage took on a different character. There was greater vigilance, and a mood of anticipation. Their arrival in Liberia was an opportunity not for recreation but for intensification, and when the convoy departed Freetown, it had grown to become the biggest of its day. The scene was deeply impressive. Warships outnumbered the troopships, and included the battleship Hood, His Majesty’s largest fighting ship, the aircraft carrier Hermes, a number of light cruisers and over a dozen destroyers.

Nevertheless, given the air of festivity that prevailed at departure, one might not have thought the fleet was about to sail into the war zone. The local population thronged the waterfront in the late afternoon, and it seemed the whole city had gathered to watch the spectacle. Where the viewing was limited, people crowded onto rooftops or stood on vehicles. Several youths clung halfway up palm trees. Yet another brass band played manfully on, its music overwhelmed by the general hubbub, except for the occasional clash of symbols and the regular beat of the bass drum, which rolled across the inner waters of the harbour to disappear in the heavy air.

As the ships began to get up steam, they sent up smoke that hung low and moved sluggishly across the horizon, against which the vast spectacle of military manpower created an extraordinary impression. Suddenly there were three long blasts from the Queen Mary’s horn, a sound that reverberated so powerfully across the water it engulfed the crowd and caused stomachs to tremble. Then, as one, the entire fleet sounded their horns three times, and the noise rolled right across the city and halfway up the mountainsides behind, to the wild acclaim of the assembled masses. One by one, the ships weighed anchor and slowly made their way out to sea, to form a convoy again under a darkening sky.

Once at sea, routines were quickly re-established. To celebrate the fact that the long voyage was nearing its end, a series of concerts was organised on board the vessels. The Māori had provided music and laughter since the day they boarded the train in Hamilton, and being at sea had not deterred them at all. Unsurprisingly, now too they formed the nucleus of the performances. They sang now familiar songs such as ‘Pōkarekare Ana’, and the new Māori Battalion song. It was rousing stuff.

There was dancing too, if you counted a couple of beefy artillerymen dressed as ballerinas in tutus and lipstick, tripping back and forth across the stage to the tune of ‘The Sugar Plum Fairy’.

The programme included prose and even poetry, and individuals among the complement disclosed hidden talents, standing and reading their reminiscences of home with passion and genuine sentiment. Contributions such as these were met with a deep, emotive silence.

Then Lofty and Jackie Hayward brought the house down singing a love duet from Gilbert and Sullivan. The sight of the two of them tripping hither, tripping thither – of Jackie, a mop masquerading as his hair, passionately expressing his undying love to Lofty’s navel, while Lofty gazed expressionless over the top of his head – caused great hilarity. The audience urged the two to take the relationship a little further.

‘Give him one, Jackie!’ Tim yelled above the din.

‘If you can reach, mate,’ added Jackie Hayward.

At this moment the war could not have been further from everyone’s thoughts.

A programme had been printed, with an effusive compliment to the Captain and crew for their care and diligence on the voyage, written by the Māori Battalion’s Colonel Dittmer, the senior officer on board. Len thought the occasion somehow worth preserving, and he invited those nearest to him to write their names in his programme. When he got it back, there were dozens of names, seventy-nine in all, neatly written in columns. T N Hill, Jack Kindred, Jackie Hayward, Bill Neville … even the Colonel had contributed.

★ ★ ★

When the convoy rounded Cape Verde and addressed itself to the home straight, the mood on board again shifted: dramatically this time. Watch duties were doubled, and spotting aircraft or periscopes became a preoccupation, even for those who were not on duty. Of course, occasionally aircraft did fly overhead, and while they always proved to be friendly, that didn’t stop the men reacting with anxiety. This increased as the news of the evacuation of Dunkirk became known. It appeared that the Germans had the upper hand. Vigilance on blackout at night was meticulous.

In this way US3 made its way across the Bay of Biscay safely and entered the Irish Sea, where the vessels picked up speed. They ploughed through wreckage, evidence of a recent attack, and sailed past a blazing tanker sinking slowly by the stern with only its bow visible above water. There were no signs of life. Men lined the sides of the passing ships in sombre silence.

Then land came into sight, and on 12 June 1940 the convoy made landfall at Greenock in Scotland and anchored in the Firth of Clyde. The voyage from Auckland had taken forty-two days.

★ ★ ★

The arrival of a convoy of reinforcements like US3 did much to improve Britain’s morale at a desperate time, and the large body of Dominion troops offered up a powerful symbol of unity among far-flung nations who saw fascism as the mutual enemy of humanity. No one on the newly arrived convoy realised the gravity of the circumstances around them. The British army had been evacuated from Dunkirk, and Italy had joined the Axis. No one yet appreciated that the British Isles were under siege, let alone what a siege would look or feel like, but the horizon around the island nation was dark indeed, and the battle itself had now shifted to the skies. In the streets, men and women could look up and watch a few brave champions fighting to the death on their behalf, contrails arcing and slicing through the sky, as they strove to keep the Luftwaffe at bay.

Since Dunkirk all the transport systems were overloaded, and the shore experience was semi-chaotic. Rather than heading into Glasgow as had first been intimated, the New Zealand Naval Reservists were marched to a railway station and told they were to be split into three groups. One was headed to Chatham, one to Devonport and one to Portsmouth.

With departure looming, Len looked around for Haami. He would miss the special relationship they had had during the voyage. He had come to admire the man himself, for his strength of character. He had learned respect for his culture, too; for its robustness. And he knew he had grown – a little perhaps, but grown nevertheless – a better understanding of the meaning of being Māori. He saw now a platoon of Māori standing at attention further down the station platform, Sergeant Parata ramrod straight front and centre. As they were stood easy, Haami looked towards the Navy contingent. He saw Len and came towards him. They shook hands. ‘Good luck, my friend,’ Haami said. ‘Okea ururoatia, e hoa!’

‘Okay ururoa-tia?’ Len struggled with the pronunciation.

‘Okea ururoatia. Fight like a shark.’ You fullas would say, ‘Never say die.’

Each time they had parted company on the ship, Len had heard Haami use a particular phrase; he had memorised it. He thought he understood its meaning, and so he said now, ‘Ka kite anō, Haami.’ See you again.

‘Ha, ha! Ka pai, ka pai. See you again too, e hoa!’

Deeply gratified by the gesture, the Māori drew the young sailor towards him and offered a hongi. They touched noses briefly, allowing their wairua to co-mingle. In the middle of a busy platform, the act was profoundly personal.

Then they parted company for the last time, Haami in search of mana and Len in search of himself.

★ ★ ★

The sailors were loaded onto a train to begin another journey, this time heading south into England, officers in one carriage and ratings in the remainder. Four men had to squeeze into bench seating for three. Having hoisted their kitbags up into the carriage and climbed on board, Tim and Len found themselves standing next to the two McVinnie brothers. Coincidently the four smallest boys in the unit, they recognised their opportunity simultaneously, and immediately threw themselves onto the nearest available seat. They were then able to relax and enjoy the rest of the journey in moderate comfort.

Lofty was disgusted. He looked down at the occupied alternative opposite, and forced his way onto the seat, deaf to complaint. He sat opposite the others and scowled back at them, head, shoulders and ears above his neighbours. Tim couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Don’t worry about it, Lofty, you make a great periscope. Can you tell us what’s happening down the back?’

The two Macs laughed. Lofty didn’t seem to get the joke.

‘Bastard seats. How long’s this bloody journey, anyhow?’

‘Too bloody long if I have to listen to you bleating, Lofty,’ cried a voice from the seats behind.

A tiny, smile-like curvature rose at one corner of Lofty’s mouth. He did ‘grumpy’ well. He leaned back and raised his brows to his mates. As they raised theirs back, he repositioned his cap to cover as much of his face as he could, folded his arms and lapsed into silence. The others fell silent too. As the train lurched into motion and slowly gained speed, Len thought about Haami’s last words.

Fight like a shark.

Ururoa. The word kept invading his thinking. He repeated it silently to himself, fascinated by its lyricism, and by the paradox that it concealed within it something sinister, something dangerous. Before long the noise of the wheels clattering along the tracks in a regular tempo began to match the word itself – ururoa, ururoa, ururoa – but neither the noise nor the motion of the train was enough to prevent him or the others from eventually falling asleep.

They were woken in the middle of the night, when the train stopped at Carlisle, and they were given a supper of a cold bun and black tea. Then they continued.

The journey in daytime was captivating. The train passed through countryside that Len and the others had only ever seen in books or at the cinema. They found it invigorating to travel through the landscape with the windows open, especially after six weeks at sea. The smell of newly turned soil drifted through the train from time to time, and the coal smoke took Len straight back home. He watched the scenery pass, rolling hills crowned with coppices of oak, beech or birch trees, all bursting with fresh foliage. In the fields, the new season’s planting was beginning to thrive, greening the landscape in neat rows. They passed along thickly wooded valleys, beside slow moving streams spanned by simple, stone-arched bridges. Sometimes they crossed over valleys and large vistas opened up, allowing Len to look down on sleepy villages clustered at intersecting rivers or roads. A marvellous church steeple passed by as the train skirted a large town on some sort of viaduct. Somebody said it might be York.

As they travelled south, through the industrial Midlands, things changed. They met other troop trains stopped at a siding. On each occasion the troops of both trains shouted and cheered each other loudly in passing. Once they stopped to let another troop train pass, but the cheering stopped when it was realised the train was full of wounded. Then they began to see evidence of destruction, smoke on the horizon, and new works where rails or bridges had been repaired. Everywhere, military activity imposed itself: vehicles, men in uniform, covered signage and the cryptic military substitutes. Once they came to a railway junction that had clearly been a target of heavy bombing. They stopped for quite a long time before the train was allowed to continue, grinding slowly past a crater where the train’s wheels came perilously close to the edge. Somebody picked up from one of the navvies working on filling the crater that this was Birmingham. On another occasion the train stopped in a cutting, to avoid observation from enemy aircraft thought to be in the area. At this point, most of the men were asleep.

To arrive into London was to arrive into the centre of the storm. Everybody quickly roused themselves. It was early morning, and in the rising light, the cost of war became vividly apparent. The sky was sown with anti-aircraft balloons, and bomb damage scoured sections of the cityscape, cutting swathes through suburban housing. When they ground into Euston Station and jerked to a stop, the boys found themselves descending onto a busy platform to be immediately formed into squads. The ratings were to disperse to several destinations, and the officers to another.

The group of Reservists that had left Auckland almost seven weeks previously, many of whom had sailed and trained together for years, was now about to divide. They knew they had been called to serve His Majesty’s Navy. How and where had been unknown, and, up until this point, very little had been spoken about the subject, even though they had known throughout the train journey that they were soon to be dispersed. The conversation had been mostly about the convoy experience, a sort of review since it was now behind them. It did not leave them much time to talk about the future, which may have been the intention. There had already been plenty of goodbyes for the boys. They were beginning to realise the merits of just moving on in such circumstances. It was part of growing up, like drinking or picking up bad language. So there wasn’t much ritual on the platform now, although no little sentiment was hidden in the casual words of farewell.

‘See you, Johnno. See you, mate!’

‘Cheerio, Don. Stay out of trouble.’

‘Not bloody likely.’

‘Yeah, right. See you, mate.’

‘Good luck, Jackie. Good luck, boys.’

‘See you out there somewhere.’

‘Not if I see you first.’

Called to order, the boys were directed to buses and driven across the city to board more trains. Driving across London, the boys could see a lot from the top deck of the bus. It was clear that the stations had been prime targets of German bombing. All around them was destruction. People in helmets swarmed over piles of still-smoking rubble, while in the street people hastened about their business with looks of grim determination on their faces. They reminded Len of the Māori on Wellington wharf. There was a clear resolve about them.

At one point Lofty nudged Len and the others to look out their window. A shopfront had suffered from a bomb blast; its masonry and windows had been blown into the shop. This had been tidied up, and placed in front was a sign: ‘More Open than Usual’.

Lofty muttered, ‘The Poms are taking a beating.’

‘Yeah, mate,’ replied Tim. ‘But they’re taking it well.’

★ ★ ★

Len, Tim and Lofty – A1888, A1889 and A1895, still together – were among a complement heading to Portsmouth and HMS Victory. They arrived in Portsmouth in the mid-afternoon and were offered another classic makeshift meal, this time prunes and custard.

‘Somebody should be writing a recipe book,’ grumbled Lofty.

The evacuation of Dunkirk was placing impossible stresses on the authorities, who were feverishly trying to maintain morale, provide order and discipline, and manage transport, shelter and sustenance for thousands of evacuees. At Victory, the authorities responded to the arrival of the New Zealanders by sending them on again, this time to another training base across the river in nearby Gosport, HMS St Vincent. There, at last, they were settled.

Selected for Scheme B as officer candidates, the Kiwi Reservists would have to spend time training and meet certain criteria to achieve promotion. They settled into St Vincent easily and adapted quickly. When the New Zealanders presented for drills, it was recognised – equally quickly – that they had a significant skill base already, and as the boys began to pull together as a cohesive unit, it was not without reward. Within a short time, they were allowed to attend divisions in the morning, then spend the rest of the day under the control of their own non-commissioned officers, much to their delight. It was a gesture of confidence. Out of sight of the authorities, it also allowed a return to the familiar pleasures of swimming, rowing and open-boat sailing instead of the classroom. For several weeks through July and into August, they relished the joys of the Hampshire coast and the best of a beautiful English summer.

In spite of the casual atmosphere, there were constant reminders of the war. The sky overhead was filled with contrails. They saw vessels returning to port with clear signs of damage, and at night they could hear the sound of enemy bombing and see the glow of fires in Portsmouth itself and even some of the lesser ports along the south coast. They thought themselves lucky. Very occasionally they were hauled in for actual training.

When the boys applied for a fortnight’s leave, they received a rude awakening. There would be no leave. Instead, they learned that the whereabouts of the New Zealanders had been lost by the Naval authorities, but now that they had identified themselves, eleven of them were to report for duty, immediately. They were to report to a merchant vessel called Alynbank that had been reconfigured as a convoy escort, sailing out of Belfast. The draft included Len, Tim and Lofty. They were for active service at last – but on a converted merchantman? Was this to be the fate of the lowly Reservists? Even before they left St Vincent, rumour had it that Alynbank was bound for Scapa Flow, to protect convoys on the exposed eastern coast of Britain and the North Sea. For the small boat sailors from the South Pacific the prospect could not have been more miserable.

★ ★ ★

The group returned to Scotland by train, travelling back to Glasgow then across the Irish Sea to Carrickfergus. Dismounting from motor transport onto the wharf in Belfast on 19 August, they gained their first impression of Alynbank. She was not pretty: an armed merchant ship, square in the bow like a dreadnought and freshly clad in marine camouflage paint. She had a single funnel, but she bristled with anti-aircraft weaponry, in which regard she at least looked like a warship. Apart from four turrets each with twin four-inch-high angle guns, she also had mounted two multi-barrelled pom-poms, and two four-barrelled machine guns of .50 calibre, to defend against close attack. Furthermore, she was equipped with a director control system, which linked an early warning device attached to friendly aircraft to gunnery control on the ship. This was highly innovative. It was also classified technology, as Lofty would shortly discover.

The voyage via Greenock to the Orkneys functioned as a shake-down cruise, for both the reconfigured vessel and its reconfigured crew. A tribal culture existed below decks, a hierarchy that was largely Royal Navy Reserve then British merchant mariners who had signed on for the duration of hostilities. The Kiwis were a conspicuous minority: distant cousins. Overall the crew was a solid mix of age and experience, and the boys enthusiastically fitted into the duty and watch regimes.

They were dispersed among the ship’s messes. Len and Tim and Jackie Hayward joined a mess with a dozen British Royal Navy Reserve seamen who were also gunnery ratings. They slept in hammocks, of course, in perpetual red lighting that allowed watch members to sleep at any time. Each man had a standard locker barely big enough for his kit, so there was very little room for personal items. At mealtimes the boys had to remind themselves they were still getting better food than many people were putting up with on shore.

Alynbank was to operate between Scapa Flow and the Firth of Forth, an area that was particularly vulnerable to German aircraft flying out of Stavanger in Norway. As qualified gunnery ratings, Tim and Len were disappointed to find they had been placed as far away from the guns as they could possibly be, locked with four others in a magazine below the waterline, tasked with loading the elevators with ammunition for the four-inch guns overhead. At first they were indignant at being denied the opportunity to engage with the enemy, having come 12,000 miles to do so. However, they prudently decided to take the view that there had been a mistake, an administrative error, and sought permission to address the issue with their Chief Petty Officer. He kept them waiting for five minutes before allowing them into his presence, and he barely raised his eyes from his desk while Len put a bold case for his and Tim’s immediate transfer to an actual gunnery team, preferably in A-turret. All the while the CPO shook his head. ‘Is this an official complaint?’

‘Yes, sir!’ answered Tim. The CPO’s head jerked up.

‘No, sir!’ corrected Len.

‘Then what is it?’

Unsure how to answer, Len hesitated. Tim started to speak, but Len nudged him.

‘There’s no bargaining for jobs around here!’ the CPO told them. ‘You’ll go where you’re told, my lads.’

‘Sir!’

The CPO added sharply, ‘You volunteers are going to have to learn your place.’ He looked Len in the eye. ‘Dismissed.’

Len was stunned at first, but Tim was angry. ‘Learn’? Not ‘earn’? He was standing a little behind Len, and murmured under his breath. ‘Pricks. We’ll show ’em.’

‘What was that, sailor?’

Tim snapped back to attention. ‘We’ll show you. Sir!’

The CPO saw straight through the ambiguity, and scowled at them both. ‘Get back to your stations. Now!’

‘Aye aye, sir!’

It was insulting, but what could they do? They did not want to risk being labelled as uncooperative, and so resisted the idea of taking the issue further. They resigned themselves to the circumstances and returned to their duties with intent. Signalman Neville, ever capable of navigating his way through rough seas, found himself back on the bridge with the plum job of Air Defence Position. Virtually all communications onto the bridge passed around him, and as a consequence the Kiwis knew more than most about what was going on during their time aboard Alynbank.

The role of the ‘Bank class’ of auxiliary anti-aircraft ships, of which Alynbank was one of three, was challenging and dangerous, a fact that became obvious to the boys the moment they found themselves on their first convoy patrol out of Scapa Flow. Anti-aircraft equipped vessels were the first target for German bombers seeking to eliminate risk to themselves, and over time, a pattern emerged whereby the Germans would make their observations of the convoy during the afternoon, then attack at dusk, when diminishing light would add to the confusion and impede rescue. Between discovery and attack, the ship would change its position within the convoy, hoping to avoid the close attention, but in Lofty’s words, ‘That never bloody worked.’ They were constantly hounded by attacking aircraft, notably the Condor, a long-range maritime patrol and anti-shipping aircraft. Condors were solitary, attacking alone with an array of mines or bombs and the capacity to strafe isolated ships.

Fortunately, the gunnery control system gave Alynbank some advantage. It could detect air activity for about forty miles and enabled gun crews to prepare a barrage to meet any enemy with a curtain of fire at 3500 yards. It was highly technical for the time, and integrated into another system known by the acronym IFF, meaning ‘Identify friend or foe’. While this expressed exactly the nature and purpose of the device, you weren’t allowed to talk about it. Loose lips sank ships. Lofty was reminded of this when on duty he took a call announcing the approach of friendly aircraft.

‘How do you know they are friendly?’ asked Lofty, who thought the question perfectly logical.

‘Because they are using IFF,’ was the reply – intelligence which Lofty dutifully repeated to the officer of the new watch. He was immediately reprimanded for using classified jargon.

‘Damn it, man!’ exclaimed the officer. ‘When are you people going to learn?’

★ ★ ★

The first time Len and Tim saw action was terrifying. But in fact they saw nothing. When the alarm sounded ‘Action stations!’ they donned boots and anti-flash gear, slid down the ladders and took station with another four men in the magazine, located in a chamber on the lowest of the ship’s five decks. Then they followed instructions to close all watertight doors, leaving themselves locked in isolation and bathed in red light. In the magazine, shells and charges were stacked separately to minimise the risk of spontaneous explosion, in wooden racks ‘like a bloody wine cellar,’ said Tim, as if he knew about these things. Three teams of two men each had to retrieve shell and cartridge from their respective racks and manhandle them onto separate elevators to be delivered to the turrets overhead. It was not a big space, and they had to brace themselves somehow against the vessel’s movements while carrying shells weighing over thirty pounds. Furthermore, bracing in anticipation of cresting or troughing became impossible when the ship began evasive manoeuvres at the start of an attack. Pitching was one thing, but yawing, which flung them from side to side against the walls of the chamber, was a particularly bruising experience. And there was no escape. This was more than goosebumps. Len’s gut contracted involuntarily. Dread flooded his internal cavities like iced water. This was fear as Haami had described it. Wehi. Hine Nui Te Pō dragged her fingernails down his backbone. And he struggled to master it.

The words of the haka came to mind.

Ka mate! Ka mate!

I die. I die? He needed to shift his thinking.

He focussed on the confines of the chamber, and the sudden clarity that he had to survive this place for the next few minutes only. That was all that mattered. Unconsciously, he began to breathe in short bursts, blowing through his lips in a silent whistle.

He looked at Tim and saw that he was probably as scared as he was, with his eyes narrowed and his breath drawn through clenched teeth. They began to harmonise their movements, Len in rhythm with the haka once more, but with renewed vigour.

Ka ora! Ka ora!

I live! I live!

What did Haami call power? Ihi? His fear had become power, if only in small portion.

They were not to see any of the battle, but they heard it. The big guns fired first, each blast causing the ship to hesitate in its passage and adding hugely to the noise. Below decks, there was no longer time for thinking about what they were doing. Len and Tim steadily and mechanically loaded, hoisting shell after shell onto the elevator to be carried up to where the guns pounded away. Above the rising cacophony, the pom-poms joined the battle – pom-pom-pom-pom – their empty shell casings cascading onto the decking, adding to the noise. Sometimes they could feel a compression blast from the turret above. The air reeked of cordite, and the smoke from constant firing forced its way down into the chamber.

Another big report.

Ka mate! Ka mate!

Their anti-flash clothing was cumbersome and suffocatingly hot. Their senses were assailed, and when the bombs started falling, it was difficult to distinguish the noise of defence from that of attack. It was exhausting and deafening.

Then, as quickly as they’d come, the planes left, their load delivered, and the guns fell silent.

Ka ora! Ka ora!

The All Clear was given, and damage assessment began to be called, station by station. When the boys eventually emerged on deck and shed their gear, their ears were still ringing. Everyone released the tension of the moment in his own way: a cheer, a curse, a punch in the air. Len could hardly hear a thing.

They sought a place to rest, sometimes simply collapsing on the deck, heads on rolled-up greatcoats, to sleep and wait for the next call to action. Len wrote to his family that, for all the heat and sweat and the noise, he didn’t believe they ever shot down a single enemy aircraft. The fact that he worked in the magazine was something Len did not want to share in a letter.

★ ★ ★

Lofty was at his station on the bridge during one raid, when Stukas began diving on the convoy like feeding gannets. There was something surreal about the wailing, and the sight of bombs creating enormous plumes of water that soared upwards and outwards until they began to fall back down again, all in slow motion. He watched one enemy aircraft swoop low to the water then level out and begin a strafing run directly at them. For a moment, he failed to realise what was happening, until he saw the little flashes on the plane’s wings, followed almost instantly by the thud of bullets hitting Alynbank’s superstructure. Only then did he throw himself to the deck, late but safe, and right on top of the Captain. He pretended he’d done it on purpose, and complained later and only half in jest that his devotion to duty had gone unrewarded.

Another plane had dropped a stick of five bombs that straddled the Alynbank, dangerously close to the ship. The pressure of the explosion caused the ship to lurch unnaturally, and in the magazine the boys were forced to crouch to avoid being thrown off their feet. Both understood implicitly what had caused it.

‘Jesus Christ,’ hissed Tim through clenched teeth, as he clambered to his feet, still clutching a four-inch shell to his chest.

Damage control reported a large hole on the vessel’s side. On inspection it was obvious that considerable damage had occurred to the hull, and that substantial repairs would be necessary. The ship was forced to detach from the convoy and make for Rosyth, where a further inspection revealed the presence of an unexploded bomb deep inside the hold, wedged against buoyancy barrels. Specialist bomb disposal experts were called.

Len, Tim and Lofty were watching on with interest when Lofty was called out by the officer of the watch.

‘You,’ the man said. ‘Assist these two officers to get rid of that thing.’

Lofty went with the two disposal experts to scope the challenge, which he described on his return as ‘a bloody great bomb’. Then the experts disappeared, leaving the manhandling to Lofty. He was briefly perplexed, but since Len and Tim were ordinary seamen and of lesser rank to himself, an able seaman, he called out, ‘Oi, you two,’ pointing his finger directly at them. ‘You’ll do. You short-arses will be able to get right into the tight spots. Come with me.’

As he turned to make his way below, he collared a couple of others.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘If we can get rid of the bugger fast enough, we could make the pub before closing.’

Together the men squeezed into the shattered space and by using lengths of timber began to manoeuvre the bomb out of the impact zone, through torn steel plating and between jagged metal beams. Len pointed to several knobs, visible on the nose of the bomb.

‘I don’t like the look of those,’ he said several times, until Lofty began to worry and wrote a note to the Disposal Officer.

‘What are the things on the nose of this device?’

The RN Lieutenant in Disposal sent a reply, which Lofty read out: ‘Detonators. Don’t touch!’

Len felt his stomach twist again, but his sense of wehi was becoming familiar now. They carried on, gingerly manhandling the bomb up ladders, over the deck and down the gangway. Ashore at last, the bomb was transferred to a small lighter and taken out to sea and dumped.

It was an exhausted Lofty who slumped down onto the bench in the mess afterwards.

‘Jesus,’ was the only word he could summon.

‘You called, my son?’ said Tim, still sharp.

‘I could kill for a beer.’

‘I could kill you for two,’ said Tim.

Len sat and listened while Lofty speculated about a decoration for his efforts, but in the end, all he did get was a tot of rum and a word of congratulations from the Captain.

And that wasn’t their only near miss. They were sailing very close to the wind.

One night, calm and clear this time with something of a moon visible, they had been sailing under radio silence when the Alynbank made to depart the convoy. She had been instructed to return north to pick up and escort another convoy in a routine rotation. The manoeuvre was timed for the hour, but as the clock ticked towards the appointed moment, the order was given to change course. The ship turned and sailed straight across the bow of a Dutch freighter, which could not avoid collision. The Alynbank was rammed, sustaining considerable damage.

Given the hour, most of the crew had been asleep. Some had no idea that a collision had occurred, but the sound of klaxons and broadcast instructions to close watertight doors brought them instantly to heart-pounding consciousness. Everybody raced to their stations.

‘What the hell happened?’ asked one of the Macs when the situation stabilised.

‘You might well ask,’ growled Lofty, again present on the bridge at the time. ‘We turned too early. There’s a hole in the side big enough to drive a bus through.’

When the sun rose, Len took a look. It was a big hole between two bulkheads, so the ship remained sound – but it was forced to make for Rosyth again. Eventually repairs were made across the Firth, in Leith, effectively a maritime suburb of Edinburgh. The circumstances allowed the boys to apply for promised leave, and this time they were successful.

The leave passed quickly enough, but the boys made the most of every opportunity, travelling widely through Scotland on rail passes. They stayed in local billets, drank in local pubs and chatted up local girls. They found a photographer who took their photographs, Len happily posing in full Highland uniform, complete with kilt, sporran and bearskin busby.

★ ★ ★

In winter, the North Sea can be a brutal place, as if all the violence and energy of the Atlantic are concentrated on one small area.

Siberian temperatures were compounded by wind chill, and the windborne seawater that drenched the ship froze to ropes and wires, interfering with operating systems. The decks were treacherous. To be lost overboard guaranteed a quick death. This was where Alynbank’s eleven Kiwis – Len, Tim, Lofty, Jackie Hayward and Jack Kindred among them – spent the winter of 1940/1941, shepherding the survivors of trans-Atlantic convoys through the North Sea. The cold weather gear that the crew were issued was dreadfully inadequate, and they either suffocated in the rancid heat below decks or were chilled to the bone above. If there was anything good about the conditions, it was that visibility was often minimal, so that aircraft couldn’t fly. On the other hand, the danger from submarines, always present, had grown considerably by early 1941.

In spite of all, they endured the rigours relatively unscathed. They earned twelve days’ leave beginning on New Year’s Day and another fortnight in February. In April, Len was promoted to able seaman. He was still only twenty years old, and he and the other youthful Kiwi Reservists continued to be passed over for officer training.

In July, the eleven Kiwis were paid off from Alynbank and drafted to join the crew of the light cruiser HMS Neptune. There were rumours that Neptune was being prepared for transfer to New Zealand command, and the kernel of a Kiwi crew was being assembled. The New Zealanders were buoyed enormously by the thought that, at last, they were going to join a real fighting ship.

★ ★ ★

After ten more days’ leave, the New Zealanders reassembled in London for another train ride, this time to Southampton. There they were to embark for Alexandria to join Neptune, which had already sailed to join the Mediterranean Fleet. The prospect caused some excitement, but the mood was tempered, as most things now were, with a healthy degree of caution. The Mediterranean was a fierce theatre of war, and this time they would be seeking out the enemy for combat, not attempting to evade him. They had witnessed the cost of battle, for while Alynbank had suffered no casualties, they had seen the trains full of wounded soldiers, planes falling out of the sky, and dead and damaged seamen being evacuated from damaged vessels.

Travel was no longer novel or exciting either, but often risky. Even the short journey to Southampton dragged on, with numerous unscheduled stops when Len and the others sat in quiet contemplation, writing letters or reading. Conversation was muted. The truth was the boys had matured. All their romantic notions about a great adventure had been swept away by months of active service, and their youthful enthusiasm had been replaced by a quiet, mature confidence. In the Great War, the New Zealand Division on the Western Front had come to be known as ‘the Silent Division’ because of the way the men conducted themselves, tolerating the circumstances without complaint, fighting an enemy that might have been superior in numbers but never in determination. Unconsciously, the boys had arrived at a similar space. The competence they had forged in training was now honed by experience, and their camaraderie was implicit, deep and personal. The Old Man would have been proud.

Nearing Southampton, the train slowed yet again, and it quickly became apparent that the port was under attack. The train ground to a halt and sat motionless, shielded on either side by steep embankments of a railway cutting. Several dozen enemy aircraft were bombing the port and facilities in a rare daylight raid. The men got down out of their carriages and smoked by the tracks. Some stretched out on the grass on the banks with their eyes closed, smelling the grasses, but most stood talking, scanning the still, clear skies for a sight of the action. The city and port were out of view in the middle distance, while, above, the German bomber formations moved steadily across the sky at altitude.

The planes released their bombs in sticks, while all around them fighter aircraft could be seen weaving in and out in a manic game of life and death. The raid was fierce, involving perhaps fifty bombers that the sailors could identify as Junkers 88s. There were nearly as many escorts – stubby Focke-Wulfs and sleek Messerschmitts – fighting off the attacking Spitfires of Southern Command.

As a port, Southampton was a prime target. Its defences were considerable, and the explosive bursts of anti-aircraft fire added to the spectacle, the noise melding into a constant if distant crackle, underpinned by the deeper thudding of bombs striking the port.

Men gasped as two planes collided in mid-air. It was impossible to tell friend from foe at that distance. The smoke, too, began to coalesce at altitude. A cheer erupted from the men crouched on top of the embankment as a bomber exploded in a ball of fire from which a cluster of burning parts radiated gracefully out and began to fall slowly to earth. The anti-aircraft fire was beginning to find its range.

A second bomber in the same flight lost a wing. The cheers were not so loud this time, as the plane began its fall, tumbling unpredictably. Len watched as first one, then two, then three little dots parted from it, and from one, he saw a parachute open. The rest were not so lucky. It occurred to him that falling out of the sky wasn’t so different from a slow death in a sinking ship.

It was over in twenty minutes. The sailors saw the bombers, having delivered their load, turn south-east and head back across the channel to occupied France. They were hounded by Spitfires, until these too were forced to turn for home.

In answer to the whistles blown by their officers, Len and the men reboarded the train, which clanked into motion and made its way slowly into the city. The railway station had been targeted too, but in spite of a direct hit on the marshalling yard, their train was eventually able to pull into a platform and allow the men to disembark. The New Zealanders were met by a Naval liaison officer, who delivered shocking news. Their transport had been forced to sail. The train’s many unpredictable stops had consumed valuable time, and, wary of being caught in the raid, the ship had not delayed but had weighed anchor and sailed for the Mediterranean without the eleven Kiwis. The men were given temporary billets while the issue of their deployment was resolved, and for the next couple of days there was a fair amount of grumbling about the loss of opportunity and wasted time.

On 01 October 1941, a joint agreement established the Royal New Zealand Navy. It was an event that prompted several pub visits and some speculation. The men debated what sort of warships might be involved, and where.

‘I imagine they’ll send us on to the Med,’ Len said in a wistful moment.

‘It’ll be the Med. That’s where the fighting is,’ asserted Lofty.

It made sense. The New Zealand Division was in North Africa, and so was Neptune.

‘Where else would they send us?’ asked Tim.

‘I don’t know, mate. What about the Japs?’ Jackie asked.

The news had been full of the Japanese threat to British interests in the Far East.

‘Back towards home? You wish, mate!’ Tim said.

In the end, their brief respite from duty ended with a terse instruction. They were to separate. Half of them were to report to HMS St Christopher, the Navy’s largest small-boat training establishment, in Fort William, Scotland, to train on motor torpedo boats. The other half were drafted to HMS Attack at Portland, to join minesweepers. It took a while for the men to absorb the news, which in many ways was positive. They were training for small boats. But the group that had left Auckland a year and a half ago was now greatly depleted, and it was about to divide once more. Lofty was among those departing to Portland; Jackie Hayward, Jack Kindred, Len and Tim were off to St Christopher. And there was mention of their being sent to Singapore.

Tim could barely contain his frustration.

‘They must be frigging joking. We’ve spent half our time pissing about,’ he ranted through clenched teeth. ‘Halfway round the frigging world, a rail tour of Great Britain, twelve months on a leaky merchantman, and now they want to send us back? To Singa-bloody-pore? Jesus.’

Ever the rationalist, Len kept his silence. Lofty, on the other hand, got straight to the point. ‘Well, I’m buggered, mates. We’re being sent to Lowestoft to join a minesweeper.’ Then added, ‘Kiwi crew, though.’

‘Jeez, Lofty, you can’t leave us now, mate,’ said Jackie. ‘The party’s not over.’

‘Yeah, well it’s time you bastards learnt how to look after yourselves. I can’t wet-nurse you all your lives. Come on, we might as well go and get pissed. It could be a long time between drinks.’

‘I’ll second that,’ said Jack Kindred, and they all raced each other down the street to the Jack Tar. The Kiwis had never found the limpid ales of Britain much to their liking, but they did have the desired effect. In their inebriation, the Singapore draft became the butt of the men’s pointed humour.

‘Bloody rest cure; that’s what you bastards can look forward to,’ claimed Lofty. ‘While we’re dredging mines out of the North Sea,’ he added ‘you’ll be messing about with Oriental women.’

‘I don’t think so,’ replied Len. ‘If the Japs decide to have a go at Malaya, there’ll be a fight all right.’

‘Two fronts,’ muttered Jack Kindred.

‘What’s he on about now?’ asked Lofty.

Jack didn’t say much.

Len spoke for him. ‘If we get involved in the Far East, we’ll be fighting on two fronts.’

The Germans had invaded Russia in June, and everybody understood the enormous risk it had taken of fighting on two fronts. Britain was the last bastion for the defence of Europe. For her to defend the Far East would seem to be impossible.

The humour all but disappeared from the conversation.

‘Barman!’ yelled Lofty. ‘Another round.’

★ ★ ★

Lofty was gone the next day. There wasn’t much time for sentiment, and most of them had enormous hangovers; especially Lofty. While the others may not have noticed, he was the one who took the news the hardest. When he emerged from his billet the next morning, with his kitbag over his shoulder, Len and Tim were waiting for him. Together they escorted him to the railway station.

A train lay hissing at the platform and the banging of carriage doors lent a percussive element to the scene, as uniformed men from every imaginable service scurried to and fro in search of a something or a someone.

‘Don’t hang about, mates, or you’ll finish up in bloody Lowestoft too.’

But they did hang about – for a moment anyway. Then the train’s whistle blew.

‘OK, Lofty, see you, mate,’ said Tim. ‘Take it easy.’

‘See you, Lofty. Take it easy.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do.’

‘Good on you, mate.’

Len looked up at his friend.

‘Thanks for everything, Lofty. See you.’ They shook hands.

Lofty winked.

‘Not if I see you first,’ he replied. Then he turned and walked away.

His mates watched as the tall figure, ears glowing like navigation lights, disappeared into the crowd.

4

Blows against Empire

The frustration and irritation that visited the men who had missed the draft to Neptune quickly evaporated at the prospect of being retrained for service in fast patrol boats. At last it seemed they were to be allowed to play to their strengths. They spent six weeks at HMS St Christopher, under the command of A.E. Welman, a much-decorated Royal Naval stalwart with a reputation for extreme rigour, and a lofty disdain for colonials. In their element, the men met his challenge with enthusiasm, working up their navigation skills in the Scottish isles and practising manoeuvre, attack and defence tactics to the highest standard. At the end of the six weeks, when asked to volunteer for service in the Far East, they did so without hesitation. Len looked forward to serving on a fast patrol boat, and even Tim found merit in being posted to ‘Singa-bloody-pore’.

‘Not only are we closer to home, but we leave the war behind!’ he postulated.

‘I hope you’re right about that,’ retorted Len under his breath.

It was a smaller group that arrived at the Naval base at Portland on the south coast of England for final training in new Fairmile motor launches. Len, Tim, Jackie Hayward and Jack Kindred were billeted in Brixham over a five-week period, and because they had to wait for delivery of their boats, they obtained leave and rail passes and travelled all over Devon and Cornwall, from Exeter to Land’s End, Penzance and Newquay. Tim even made them go to Mousehole, just to see why it qualified for the name.

When the Fairmiles were finally delivered, they went to sea, and for three weeks they worked up their skills in this new class of high-speed wooden-hulled motor launch, executing search and rescue, escort and anti-submarine patrols. By the end of October they were ready for active service. They had come a long way from the Hauraki Gulf and the Wakakura. When they finally embarked for the Far East, they were filled with self-belief and high expectations.

First, though, the Kiwis had to travel north again, back to Glasgow, where their convoy was assembling. By now Len had developed an affection for the English countryside and took simple pleasure in gazing quietly out at the passing scenery. The others were similarly quiet, no longer the boisterous colonials, but mature realists with combat experience and a stoical appreciation for the meaning of duty. The hedgerows and neatly groomed fields spread out to the skyline on either side of the train. The ploughed soil and rich array of gold, brown and red that coloured woods and coppices heralded the arrival of winter. When they reached the Clyde they couldn’t believe their good fortune to find themselves boarding MV Aorangi for the voyage. Aorangi was familiar as a liner on the New Zealand passenger run. Built in 1924, she had accommodation to rival Aquitania. The Kiwis wasted little time settling in and getting familiar with the ship’s amenities. They were a small part of the Coastal Services draft of four Fairmile crews, fifty-six men, who had to share space with over 2000 other military personnel on board Aorangi. Until departure, they had no idea how many ships might be involved in the convoy, which was called WS.12Z.

WS.12Z sailed on 12 November. Two troopships carried over 4000 soldiers of the British 53rd Infantry Brigade, a small cargo vessel carried ammunition and ordinance, and Sussex had fifty Hurricane fighter aircraft on board, all still in their crates lashed to the decking, as well as twenty-four pilots and other air force personnel to maintain them. This small group of vessels was defended by a changing force of warships and shepherded between rendezvous points, arriving in Freetown thirteen days later. There, the men were not allowed to disembark. By its very nature they knew the convoy was heading for a potential combat zone, and their confinement only heightened the tension. After three days, the convoy continued on towards Durban.

Every day had its routines during the voyage: watch routines, drill routines and routines of eating and exercise. Over three weeks into the voyage, at around midday on 08 December, the men were surprised to be called to muster on deck for a public address. They were even more surprised when a message from the fleet commander was broadcast over the convoy’s Tannoy. Japan had entered the war! There was momentary hubbub as the message was absorbed and understood. In the lull that followed, it was announced further that Singapore itself had been attacked and that the convoy was proceeding with all caution. Instantaneously uproar broke out again, as the ramifications of this were relayed throughout the crowd, and then they were dismissed.

The convoy sailed on, exercising due caution, and eleven days later on 19 December, it arrived in Durban. The men had now been at sea for five weeks – almost as long as the voyage from New Zealand – yet they had travelled only half the distance.

This time they were allowed ashore. They revelled once more in the warmth of the climate and the hospitality of the local people. Dressed in their tropical Number Twos, they ambled along the Durban waterfront, wandered through markets and shopping streets, sat in parks and drank coffee before midday and beer after, but all with uncharacteristic restraint and solemnity. They had a greater sense of themselves now, as being more than simply sailors. They had begun to see themselves as seamen, entirely comfortable on the seven seas.

In Durban they learned of the sinking of the Prince of Wales and Repulse north of Singapore on 10 December. The news had been kept from them in the belief that to acknowledge such a loss so soon in the campaign would affect morale. The two great warships had been sunk by the Japanese as soon as they had put to sea, ill-defended and without any air cover.

‘Fuck me,’ Jack Kindred muttered under his breath when they heard the news.

The loss of the two capital ships eliminated the British Navy’s control in the region; it was a blow against empire that destroyed its cutting edge. The sea now belonged to the Japanese, a fact not lost on the sailors. The survival of British territorial and commercial ambitions in the Far East now relied solely on Fortress Singapore.

Then came news of the sinking of Neptune.

On the same day the men had arrived in Durban, 19 December, Neptune had struck a mine off the Libyan coast. Disabled, the light cruiser had drifted further into the minefield, hit a second mine and blown up. There was only one survivor. Among the 764 men who perished were 150 New Zealanders, many of them men from Ngapona. The news did not impact on the convoy at large, but it had a significant impact on the New Zealanders. While no one knew the detail, all knew somebody among the crew, and Len for one sat somewhere between disbelief that so many close friends had perished and the grim realisation that it might happen to him at any time.

On the last day of their shore leave, Len, Tim, Jack Kindred and two of their new English mates, Harry Swift and Johnno, a motorman, met once more near the public gardens for a beer. There they were approached by a local African rickshaw driver, a tall, strapping Zulu dressed in native garb: a black warrior with a horned headdress, who offered them a ride. At first they resisted, not wanting to demean the man, but he persuaded them that this was the way he earned a living. He explained that the deal also included their photograph, taken by a confederate conveniently stationed nearby. Somewhat reluctantly, they positioned themselves on and around the rickshaw, but recent events had cast a sombre mood over them all, and Len, for one, found no reason to smile for the camera.

The price turned out to be for one photograph. Since there were five sailors, the debate about the cost for the extra photographs became vigorous, which enlivened them hugely. In the end, they had a copy each when they returned to Aorangi late in the afternoon. That night, 24 December 1941, they sailed for Singapore.

★ ★ ★

The departure was businesslike and without excitement. Len and Tim found their way to a spot beneath a lifeboat, similar to the one where Len and Haami Parata had sat together on the Aquitania. Durban was blacked out, and as they sat silently watching, they could sense more than see the mass of Africa diminish and disappear in the night.

For several days, the convoy was shepherded cautiously across the Indian Ocean towards its final destination. They were joined one night by another troopship carrying almost 5000 more men, from the British 18th Division. Now designated DM.1, this group left the protection of Attu Atoll on 05 January, and on 10 January a fleet of eleven Allied warships met the convoy to escort it for the last days of the voyage. These ships represented one of the first operational responses of the newly formed American British Dutch Australian force, otherwise called ABDA. It included four ships from the Royal Netherlands Navy, one from the Royal Indian Navy and the British light cruiser Exeter, and the Kiwis cheered at the sight of the Australian frigate Vampire. The convoy crossed the Andaman Sea heading east towards the Malay peninsula, using Sumatra as a defensive shield against detection and attack for as long as they could.

January was monsoon season, and the Andaman Sea was an intolerable place of impossible humidity and blinding rainstorms. Almost three weeks had passed at sea as the convoy had ranged slowly closer and closer to its destination, cautiously seeking to avoid any contact with the enemy. Now the proximity to land was beginning to be felt. Pressure systems built and vented. Typically monstrous black clouds roiled vigorously overhead, releasing downpours of heavy rain that came straight down and made the surface of the sea seem to boil before suddenly stopping, when the sea would become oily and flat calm. As the convoy neared its destination, the continuous presence of heavy cumulonimbus weighed oppressively on all the men, who sweated from every pore. Whenever they were able, they made for the upper decks, trying to gather some relief. Standing in the rain was a pleasure.

The ships entered the Malacca Straits on full alert when the call to action stations suddenly came. On board Aorangi there had been drills, but it was quickly understood that this was no drill. They were now well within range of Japanese aircraft. Len and Tim went below deck when the attack began, behind watertight doors, and listened to the sound of bombing and anti-aircraft fire. The assault was short and sharp, and they could do nothing but hang on.

★ ★ ★

The convoy finally arrived at the Straits Settlement on 13 January, when Aorangi passed through the anti-submarine boom and entered Keppel Harbour.

Few of the men knew much about Singapore, which had begun life as a fishing village at the foot of the Malay Penninsula. Len and the other New Zealanders did understand its strategic importance, lying as it did midway on the trade route between Britain and its remote Dominions. And virtually all maritime traffic between Asia and Britain and Europe passed through Singapore. The value of this trade was enhanced by rich deposits of tin and the development of rubber plantations in Malaya itself. While the port and the rubber were substantial prizes for any invader, their loss to Britain would have been incalculable.

In peacetime, the city had flourished as an outpost of Empire, sustaining a cosmopolitan population of native Malays, Chinese and Indians, as well as a wealthy class of British government officials and expatriate merchants and entrepreneurs. At its heart was the busy port. Along the shoreline stretched a field of green, home to the Singapore Cricket Club, and behind that a number of fine civic buildings, including the Supreme Court building with its conspicuous dome easily visible from the harbour. Nothing expressed the triumph of British colonialism more than Raffles Hotel, with its sparkling white facade, linen-suited clientele and decadent atmosphere of cheroots and stengahs. Beyond this impressive centre a sprawl of mostly wooden dwellings, home to Singapore citizens of all ethnicities, stretched out to the edge of the jungle.

Now, in wartime, the old order was being demolished by Japan, intent on expanding its own sphere of influence. In the five weeks since the attack, the Japanese had enjoyed supremacy in the air battle. It seemed that outmoded British aircraft and poor planning had failed to prevent the enemy from bombing the city with impunity; they arrived punctually every day at the same time to do so. Bombers in flights of nine, eighteen, twenty-seven or more systematically carpeted the city’s harbours and their defences with high explosives or incendiaries. All this became dramatically clear when Len and the others prepared to disembark.

There was a large anti-aircraft battery located right beside the dockyard gates. The men saw destroyed and damaged buildings that blazed in and around the dockyard, sending thick smoke skyward to further inflate a huge grey cloud anchored like a dirigible in the sky over the city. Gunners manned anti-aircraft emplacements, and two ambulances stood on the wharf with their doors open.

Lining the rail prior to disembarking, Len and Tim gazed out over the scene. The smoke and destruction wasn’t unfamiliar. The scale of it was though. They were landing into a war zone.

Tim spoke. ‘I think I preferred the old war.’

Len nodded. ‘This looks like a land war to me.’

Tim nodded back. ‘It looks like a short war to me.’

★ ★ ★

On disembarking, the Coastal Services men reported to the local Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve base Laburnum, where a Staff Officer, Commander Pendarvis Frampton, controlled all coastal patrol boat operations. The Laburnum was a relic of the Great War and survivor of the China Station, an old sloop that did not look so out of place moored among the smoking wreckage and the other battle-worn small vessels crowding the Telok Ayer dockside for servicing. The men who drew up on the wharf came from various sources. The four crews sent from Britain discovered how much had changed during their voyage. Malay seamen had been released already from service on the patrol boats, on compassionate grounds, and their places taken by survivors of Prince of Wales and Repulse, who were now standing among them. They also discovered that a number of the officers standing at the rail of Laburnum were Australian or New Zealand members of the Volunteer Naval Reserve.

From the rear rank of the assembly, Len scanned the officers facing him. One of the New Zealand officers seemed familiar. He discreetly nudged Tim and whispered out the side of his mouth, ‘I think I know that bloke.’

Tim waited a moment before risking a reply. ‘Which bloke?’

‘The short bloke.’

‘They’re all bloody short.’

‘Quiet at the back!’ bellowed a Chief Petty Officer, standing beside the officers on the deck.

The two stood impassively, staring straight ahead with the rest of the assembled group. After a few more moments, Len whispered again. ‘The one on the left.’

Tim allowed his eyes to stray to the left, and surreptitiously surveyed a shortish man in his late twenties, who looked back over the group with a keen interest in his eyes and a half smile on his face, apparently pleased at what he saw. Tim thought he too had seen this person before. ‘Must be from home.’

They listened while a Royal Navy officer addressed them. They heard how they were now part of Britain’s Far East defence strategy, tasked with patrolling the waters of coastal Malay, and that they were to be the eyes and ears of Fortress Singapore, guarding against infiltration. It sounded soft; the word ‘invasion’ didn’t enter the speech, but to most the message was implicit. The role was dangerous, and it was vital. The brief ceremony was concluded, the men brought to attention and dismissed.

‘Hey, you two!’

A number of people turned towards the speaker, including Len and Tim. The man caught their eye. It was the officer they thought they had recognised.

‘Yes, you two!’

The three came face to face in the middle of the dispersing crowd. The two able seamen stiffened and saluted their superior.

‘At ease, at ease,’ he said. ‘Johnny Bull. Don’t I know you two?’ He thrust out his hand to each in turn. ‘You’re RNZVR?’

‘Yes, sir. Len Hill.’

‘Gidday. Tim Hill.’

‘Kiwis. Brothers?’

‘Nah, mate. There’s a few others in this mob too. Kiwis, I mean,’ Tim added.

Johnny cast his eye around the mob and back to the two younger men, his hands on his hips, his cap pitched just slightly to the back of his head.

‘You’ve come from England. You must be Second Echelon. Ngapona boys. Wait a minute. I know! You two were in the pinnace race on Anniversary Day. Beat us by a couple of lengths! The Squadron,’ he said, gesturing towards himself and some other officers: gentlemen sailors of the Royal New Zealand Yacht Squadron. ‘We never did train like you fellows.’

‘That’s right,’ said Len. ‘I knew I had seen you before.’

‘You were on the tiller,’ said Johnny, looking at Len. ‘I couldn’t get out from under you for more than a moment. It was a great day’s racing.’

The three men stood smiling, reflecting on the memory, then Johnny stiffened. He told them how he was among the thirty-two New Zealanders in Scheme Y: older, experienced yachtsmen commissioned and sent to Singapore to help command the coastal defences.

‘Been here for over a year now, and this has become a real mess. It’s no use pretending. We are going to have plenty to do. Your sailing mate is up the coast somewhere on survey. You two need to watch yourselves: these Japs mean business. I’ll see you later.’

Did he mean Jack? As he walked away, Len looked at Tim and winked. ‘How about that, eh? Seems like a decent sort of bloke.’

Tim grunted, ‘Yeah, well, I hope they all know what they’re doing.’

With that the two picked up their kit and headed to the Navy office to find out what vessel they would be sailing.

★ ★ ★

To their delight, Len and Tim were immediately assigned to crew one of two Fairmile Motor Launches, ML310 and ML311. These boats were in the service of the Singapore Harbour Board and had been in the water barely a month. They were of wooden construction, 112 feet in length, and powered by two huge twelve-cylinder petrol engines developing 1260 horsepower. They were bigger and faster than the two other Harbour Defence Motor Launches, HDML1062 and HDML1063, and carried twice the armament. The Fairmiles were the very boats these men would have chosen to fight their war.

Len, Tim and Jackie joined ML310’s crew of sixteen. Apart from their Commanding Officer, Sub-Lieutenant Maynard, the crew included Malcolm Henderson from the Royal Australian Naval Volunteer Reserve as Executive Officer. Henderson had spent most of 1941 in England training under Scheme Y and had only recently arrived in Singapore as a Sub-Lieutenant himself. A number of sailors were from the Royal Navy, including Motor Mechanic Petty Officer ‘Johnno’ Johncock, and the Coxswain, Andrew ‘Jock’ Brough, a twenty-one-year-old fisherman from Kirkaldie in Scotland. These two had considerable experience as seamen. There were also Irishmen, including Dubliner Ronnie Johnson. Jack Kindred went to ML311, and the rest of the Coastal Services complement were dispersed either to ML311 or to the HDMLs 1062 and 1063.

As the crew boarded ML310, air-raid sirens began to wail to the north, on the other side of the island. When everyone had boarded, Malcolm Henderson addressed them.

‘We need to get the boat off the pier and onto an anchorage in the roads. If they come here …’. He hesitated. ‘When they come here, we sure as hell don’t want to be sitting around. If anything else happens, we want to be first out the door.’

The informality of the brief address did not diminish its gravity. It was the Aussie way, the what and the wherefore in few words. The men, all experienced seamen now, disappeared to their stations and prepared to cast off. Len heard ML311’s engines start up with a deep-throated burble of exhaust and water. A cloud of blue smoke wafted over him. His own boat’s engines fired, creating their own cloud of smoke, and everything vibrated, before settling into rhythm. He stood by his ropes, waiting for the order to cast off. He looked up to the bridge, where the Commanding Officer Sub-Lieutenant Maynard and the Coxswain Jock Brough stood at the helm. Then the shouted instructions came.

‘Stand by for’ard.’

‘Standing by for’ard.’

‘Stand by aft.’

‘Standing by aft.’

‘Cast off aft.’

At the same time, in response to an order shouted down the pipe, the engines engaged, the helm spun and the stern of the boat began to swing away from the pier.

‘Cast off for’ard.’

Another instruction put the engines in neutral, and the helm whirled again, before another call, and the boat slowly reversed. The Fairmile pulled away from the pier completely and followed ML311, gliding swiftly away to the other side of the roads. There they tied up among several vessels close under the lee of Pulau Bukom and erected their camouflage nets, to better avoid the attention of enemy aircraft. Keppel Harbour was not a sanctuary but a target.

While plans were still being settled on shore for the operational deployment of the Fairmiles and the HDMLs, on board their newly assembled crews scuttled about ensuring the equipment was serviceable and everything was secure before watches were set. Then they took stock of their boat. The Fairmile itself had bunk berths, but Len found it impossible to sleep in the tiny space, in a constant sweat and with the odour of fresh varnish still present in the air. Most of the sailors preferred to find space on deck.

The boat had become liveable mostly through the efforts of the Chinese cook they called Charlie Chan, after the fictional detective. It was customary in the Far East that each crew member make a small contribution to enable the employment of a local skilled in domestic arts such as bargaining for food, cooking and laundry. When the new crew assembled on ML310, they inherited Charlie for this purpose. Charlie was a dark horse, able to speak enough English to bargain, but not enough to explain where he was from. There was talk of him being Kuomintang, having escaped from China on one of the many gunboats that had been evacuated ahead of the Japanese advances. Vessels from Hong Kong and the China Station now lay in Singapore’s harbours. In fact Johnny Bull had spent most of 1941 serving on one, HMS Scorpion. Whatever Charlie’s origin, he was OK. Charlie ensured that the odour of wok-fried garlic chicken and vegetables permeated the ML, eventually displacing that of the varnish, and he provided vital translation services ashore.

★ ★ ★

At a number of levels life went on in Singapore as if nothing untoward was happening. Local government officials and military staff officers practised their stiff upper lip, while censorship of the press and public statements concealed the truth. In spite of the circumstances, the men put it to the Executive Officer that he could afford to give them all a leave pass. Their Commanding Officer Sub-Lieutenant Maynard was unwilling, but when Executive Officer Henderson spoke up on their behalf, he conceded, forced to acknowledge that they had just spent weeks at sea. The first group of eight immediately took off before he changed his mind. They had twenty-four hours.

When Len and Tim’s group received pay and leave passes, they headed past the MPs and warehousing to exit the port gates. There were over sixty large warehouses – locally called ‘go-downs’ – along the Telok Ayer waterfront, filled with rubber, copra and other products, much of it highly flammable. Many of the go-downs were burning, so the air was full of smoke, the odour of burning rubber and the sound of bicycle bells ringing and men shouting. They walked straight through the gates into a stationary mass of humanity laden with baggage which appeared to stretch the length of the Telok Ayer dock towards Keppel Harbour, where the evacuating vessels lay. Many of them were Chinese or Indian businessmen or Eurasians, who had travelled by bicycle or rickshaw, while a number in lorries, buses and private vehicles sat swamped by the crowd. Mostly these were British. Len guessed they were planters and their wives and families, and other displaced people, marshalled by MPs with batons as they inched towards the newly arrived ships. Military vehicles, staff cars sounding their horns urgently and convoys of lorries carrying newly landed material forced their way in the opposite direction through the throng. The civilian population had nowhere to go, and were forced to tolerate the destruction and the breakdown in services, dodging fire engines and bomb craters, fallen buildings and blocked streets. They suffered the deaths of loved ones, killed en masse from the undefended skies, yet still held on to the tenuous belief that the city itself would never fall.

The seven men made their way out of the docks towards the city. They decided to take rickshaws, Tim, Len and Jock choosing to share one, given they were all the same size. Economical, Lofty would have called it. In fact, the three of them were almost exactly the same age, too, born in 1920 within a month of one another.

Len was fascinated by all the peculiar headgear – turbans in various colours, coolie hats, Muslim pillboxes, military caps, berets, sailors’ hats and even the odd slouched hat. Then there were the smells. Frangipani flowered resolutely in the face of the ruin, releasing an aroma so concentrated that when Len was able to draw in the rich perfumes, he was transported. Charcoal smoke from roadside cooking fires proved similarly pleasant, more so when laced with the smell of chicken, beef or pork, frying in garlic, peanut oil and the fragrant spices of the East. Occasionally other less agreeable odours presented themselves: rotting vegetation, roadside waste or the stinking durian fruit. Every now and then the stench of death assailed them again, signalling their passage through another bomb site.

Rickshaws clogged the roads heading towards Keppel Harbour, overloaded with people or cargo, driven by incongruously thin Chinese men labouring hard to push down, one pedal at a time. The sailors were going the other way, along Fullerton Road, where their driver indicated Change Alley and the towering Fullerton Building. They crossed the Singapore River and headed up High Street, skirting the grassy Padang, which had served as the cricket ground and now hosted anti-aircraft batteries, and travelling past imposing administrative buildings, before they saw a sign that said ‘Hill Street’.

‘Stop!’ shouted Tim and Len simultaneously. ‘This seems as good a place as any.’

It was beginning to get dark.

‘How do we get back from here?’ Len asked their driver. He pointed out the bridge back across the river, while a group of people started to cross the road to engage the sailors, beggars asking for money and street vendors selling food and even souvenir items, as if there wasn’t a war on. Fans, coolie hats, joss sticks, and curious little packages of rolled leaves, tied with string.

‘What do you do with those?’ Len asked, about this last item.

‘Bidi, sir. Cigarette. You smoke. One dollar,’ said the seller, thrusting a packet into Len’s hand.

‘One dollar. One dollar.’

Everything was a dollar.

Tim fished out a dollar from his pocket to buy a Chinese fan made of sandalwood from a vendor draped in fabrics and immediately became the centre of attention.

Len called to him over the melee. ‘That’ll be useful.’

Tim raised his eyebrows. ‘Ava, mate.’

Girls were the last thing on Len’s mind, but Ava was clearly never far from Tim’s, and he could hardly be blamed. Len called her face to mind now. With her hair typically arranged in a French roll, Ava’s beauty was classical. Her voice was low and smoky and her laugh rich like velvet, and she exuded a gentle grace that Len found almost bewitching. Not for the first time he found himself taking check of his thoughts. He considered Tim’s unlikely gesture, 6000 miles and a world away from home, and felt a lump in his throat. He thought he should probably buy a fan for his mother, but the vendors turned away from his group to concentrate on another group of sailors arriving behind them.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Harry. ‘There’s got to be a bar around here somewhere.’ Harry was a career Navy man, who knew these things instinctively.

Suddenly an Indian gentleman thrust himself right into the middle of the small cluster of thirsty sailors.

‘A bar, sir? I can take you to a very fine bar, sir, and it’s not far from here. No, sir, not far at all, in fact.’

‘Jammy bastard can read minds,’ said Harry to the others. But they needed no further encouragement.

To the Indian, Harry said ‘Lead on, sir!’ And the small group fell in behind the Sikh. Fortunately it wasn’t far.

The Mayfair was a solid, four-storeyed Edwardian building of block and stucco, standing across the road from the main Singapore fire station on Hill Street. The floors above were apparently guest rooms, while at street level there was a small reception area, behind which was a large dining room and bar, where dark panelled walls and ceilings were dimly lit with red paper lanterns hanging above each table. The place was empty, and with a whoop of satisfaction the men, still accompanied by the Sikh, made straight for the bar. A Chinese man stood up from behind the counter, where he had been placing glasses. Jackie Hayward affected the accent of an officer.

‘Six of your finest ales, my man, and don’t spare the horses.’

The barman stared blankly back at Jackie.

‘Try plain English, Jackie,’ said Tim.

Jackie held up six fingers in front of the barman and said ‘Beer’.

Without a glimmer of acknowledgement, the man reached back under the bar and began to place six glasses on the top. He then presented six bottles of beer.

Tim reached out and picked the first one up.

‘Come on, mate!’ he exclaimed. ‘We can’t drink that. It’s bloody warm.’

The communications became more animated, but with much gesturing and a bit of help from the friendly Sikh, ice appeared. The barman made to place the ice in the glasses, but was stopped instantly by a shout from Jock.

‘No, no. Don’t do that, mate. Stick the bottles in it. I don’t want to die of some unknown disease.’

They all finally sat down at a large circular table and several ice buckets appeared, stamped with a suitably impressive champagne house label, filled with ice and bottled Tiger. Nobody could be bothered waiting for the first beer to cool properly, and the caps soon came off with a pop. As the day progressed, managing the beer and the ice became an exact science, requiring close attention. They discovered that the circular table centre rotated, and were thus able to send beer or cigarettes around the group with ease, sometimes at high speed and with spectacular results. Between the cool beer and the ceiling fan whirring away overhead, they began to feel quite relaxed.

They had noticed several Asian women arrive, dressed in silken cheongsams split alluringly up the leg, and dallying in the vicinity of the bar. One of them brought menus to the table. These offered a meal list in Chinese, Malay and English, each choice with a number beside it. Len browsed the extensive choice until he came to number sixty-five – chilli prawns. He immediately chose it. He’d never had prawns before, but had heard all about them. All the others followed suit – six orders of chilli prawns and rice. When it arrived, it proved to be a huge amount of food. A handsome plate of fat, shelled prawns in a red chilli sauce sat in front of each man, but when they looked for cutlery, there were only chopsticks to hand. More hand signals followed; spoons and forks appeared, and the men began to shovel the untried delicacy into their mouths. It only took a moment for the first reaction.

Ptui!

Jackie spat a prawn out onto the table. Len looked at him in amazement.

Ptui!

Jack Kindred gasped and grabbed his throat. Tim delivered a second prawn into his mouth at once, before it became clear that he too was suddenly in the grip of something unexpected. But he neither spat nor swallowed. Instead, he kept chewing slowly, while his eyes filled with tears. Len too had his mouth full. The flesh was firm and meaty, and not as strongly flavoured as lobster, but no sooner had he made this assessment than the heat of the chilli began to bite. It engulfed the inside of his mouth with a burning intensity that was beyond anything he had experienced, and his eyes too began to water. When he swallowed, the fire descended down his gullet, while simultaneously burning fiercely on in his mouth. Somebody beat their fist on the tabletop while gasping for air. Harry managed a strangulated ‘Jesus!’

Tim was unable to respond, reaching instead for his beer. They all did the same and took several long draughts, which turned out to make no difference whatever to the effect of the chilli. If anything, the heat actually intensified. Without thinking, Jackie Hayward thrust his hand into the bucket and stuck a piece of ice in his mouth, prompting a couple of others to do the same. Watching the uninitiated sailors undergo this baptism of fire from the shadowed recesses of the dining room, the women in the cheongsams tittered into their hands and stifled their laughter on one another’s shoulders. Len found that the more he ate the less intense the chilli – or at least the intensity stopped increasing – and so he ate on, albeit slowly. One by one, most of the others managed to follow suit, until they had demolished the entire meal, at which point the women began clapping and laughing wholeheartedly, before whisking the empty plates away.

By midnight, the men’s indulgence had taken its course. They decided as a group to leave and explore the city; some had left already. They roused Jock, who had fallen asleep in his chair. At the cash booth, Len watched the cashier’s hands move swiftly across the abacus, totalling the bill. When he went to join the others, he passed one of the Chinese women standing to the side of the small entrance foyer, and smiled. She smiled back, and raised her eyes. Len followed her gaze, then went outside.

‘So you didn’t fancy her offer either?’ asked Tim.

‘What offer was that?’

‘The offer to go upstairs and explore the carnal delights of the mystic East.’

‘The what? Have you been drinking?’

‘Yes, I have, mate, but not so much that I can’t recognise someone on the game when I see them.’

It took another moment or two before the facts dawned on Len. There had been a lot of women at the bar, and yet no customers had come into the dining room during the whole time they had been there.

‘You mean …?’

‘Yes, mate. It’s a knock shop.’

Len looked around. There were a couple of faces missing from their group. He couldn’t quite be sure who it was. He shook his head.

‘Bugger me.’

‘Now let’s not take this too far,’ Tim replied, his wit lost on a bewildered Len.

‘Come on,’ he said, and, draping an arm over Len’s shoulder, he steered his friend away from the bar.

★ ★ ★

The following morning, Tim and Jackie were sitting with Len in a bar on Collier Quay. It was hardly a bar, really; just a simple bamboo shade roof without walls, covered in a tarpaulin to keep the sun and rain out. Tiger beer and Fraser & Neave soft drinks were kept in an icebox behind a makeshift counter on which sat a glass box filled with snack foods. There was no fan and the air was stifling, but the beer was cheap and cold, and it would do. On the river, below the embankment on which they were sitting, large lighters chugged past, empty ones heading down and out into the roads to load cargo, full ones heading up to unload.

The three men were tired. None of them had ever heard of a taxi dance until, wandering around shortly after leaving the Mayfair, they had happened upon one hidden behind black-out curtains in a converted cinema. Band music had attracted their attention; inside, they found a five-piece orchestra playing modern dance music, entertaining a crowd of people dancing on a wooden floor. The whole thing was lit with candles. It was a magical scene, so they went over, paid the cashier and were handed a sheet of coupons.

The place was half full. It seemed that most of the people here were men in a uniform of some sort or other, and there were also Asian women – Chinese, Malay, Indian, Tamil – a line of whom sat along one side of the dance floor. While Tim wormed his way to the bar to get the beers, Len watched as men went up to the women and appeared to exchange their coupons for a dance. Brilliant! By the time Tim returned, Len had already sorted out their partners. When they were cleared out of the place by the MPs at closing, the sun was starting to rise.

★ ★ ★

Now the three of them sat on the Quay in silence, drinking slowly. Money, and time, were running out. They were due back on board at 1600. Len felt another trickle of sweat run down his backbone.

‘I wonder how long this is going to last,’ he said.

Air-raid sirens began to wail. Len drained his glass and stood up.

‘Come on. Let’s get back to the ship. I need a rest.’

He slammed the remaining money he had in his pocket down on the table.

The others scraped back their chairs and stood up. They raised an eyebrow to their host and walked off along the riverside, back towards the harbour, without speaking. Bombs began falling again near the Empire Docks, where some of the troopships had been tied up, but it was over by the time they walked through the gates and down to the pier, where a Naval launch took them across the harbour to their boat. Once on board 310, Len didn’t even bother to undress properly. He kicked off his footwear and stripped off his tunic, then slid into his bunk and fell into a deep sleep within seconds. In four hours it would be his watch.

★ ★ ★

Len woke to the sound of air-raid sirens. His heart missed a beat. There had been plenty of air-raid drills during the long voyage, but it took him a moment to remember he was in Singapore and this was real. He sat up too quickly and banged his head on the bunk above. Jamming his feet into his boots, he grabbed his life jacket and tin hat and scrambled topside, just as the command for ‘All hands to action stations’ was issued.

They waited until after the All Clear, then slipped their mooring and, along with ML311, went back to Telok Ayer to refuel. Len and Tim, along with Harry Swift and several others, worked together rolling forty-four-gallon drums along the dock and manually pumped petrol into the tanks of each Fairmile. The sweat poured off them. As the three paused to catch their breath and wipe the sweat from their brow, Johnny Bull came down the gangplank of HDML1062 and crossed the railway tracks towards them.

‘How are you gentlemen?’

Johnny looked at them both – brown, oil-stained and glistening with sweat. They both gave a desultory salute.

‘Doing our best, sir.’

‘I know. Good on you. A little ship is a bloody good place to be. Carry on,’ he said, and walked off towards Laburnum.

‘Smaller target,’ said Len.

‘Fewer officers,’ replied Tim.

They watched Sub-Lieutenant Bull disappear onto the headquarters vessel.

‘I like Johnny. He’s got more bottle than Maynard,’ Jackie commented.

Parts of Johnny’s service record read like a comic opera. First posted to a Yangtze River gunboat, he held the rank of Probationary Temporary Sub-Lieutenant in the Volunteer Reserve, which sounded more appropriate to Gilbert and Sullivan than the Royal Navy. He was a natural leader, and now second-in-command on HDML1062 under another New Zealander, Colin McMillan.

★ ★ ★

In the late afternoon of 15 January, the crew were all back from leave and the boats back under nets on their mooring when a launch carrying two staff officers arrived. The ML crews mustered and were informed that they would be sailing that night on a mission up the east coast of Malaya to evacuate units being overrun by the Japanese advance. The launch returned to shore, and on board the MLs preparations for departure began. Len looked over to Tim. It had been barely twenty-four hours since they had been sitting having a beer on Collier Quay. Things were beginning to heat up. They gave each other the thumbs up, and turned back to their tasks.

★ ★ ★

The voyage north was uneventful, and the crew took confidence in their boat. The ML had two huge V-12 petrol engines, 1260 bhp, which were gradually brought to a cruising speed of 18.5 knots, by which time most of the crew were topside, standing grinning at each other with the elation of the moment. At 112 feet, the boat also had the ability to manoeuvre at speed, something they had grown familiar with at Portland, and they leaned keenly now into the turns as Maynard explored the vessel’s character. Each Fairmile was armed with a single three-pounder on the foredeck, two .303-calibre Lewis guns aft and a light machine gun on either side of the bridge. Before the light disappeared each crew tested all the weapons with live ammunition, everybody on deck watching and assessing the competence of the other gun crews. At half speed they could cruise the length of Malaya without refuelling, but after nearly ten hours they slowed engines, turned into the coast and entered the mouth of a river. When they tied up beneath the Customs House clock tower in Muar, the sun was rising. It was clear that bombing here had been fierce.

ML310 had hardly touched the bomb-damaged wharf when the Commanding Officer and his deputy jumped ashore and headed towards the Harbour Master’s office. On board, Jock gave instructions, and the crew moved quietly to secure the boat and erect the nets. Len helped to square away the ropes aft, and watched 311 arrive and tie up. The crews took the opportunity to check their boats. They checked the hull and seals, then the petrol tanks were dipped and oil levels checked. They replenished their petrol supply from what they found available on the wharf – every effort was needed to preserve the stored resources back on the island.

The two Fairmiles lay across the road from an arcade of shops that stretched along the town’s waterfront. Muar had a very different atmosphere to Singapore, being much smaller, and the sound of battle was disconcertingly close. The Japanese advance from the north and west had reached the outskirts of the town; using captured boats, the Japanese had now landed troops to the south and were attempting to surround the town and the defenders. The sharp report of artillery fired in salvoes and the thump of mortars was clear, along with various sounds of impact. In the gaps between came the crackle of small arms.

The humidity was suffocating. The sailors waited and watched, while on the dockside a couple of planters appeared to be angrily encouraging a pair of reluctant porters to load bales of rubber onto a barge tied up at the wharf. Otherwise, there was little activity on the waterfront. There were a few non-combatants, local people, porters and drivers who sat idly in the shade, watching, as if the damage and the smoke and the war were of no interest. Len thought they had the look of carrion. The crew had been warned about Japanese sympathisers and other fifth columnists, and they watched these people now with special curiosity. An Army truck ground past the gates, a squad of Indian troops standing and swaying on the back. A street vendor arrived, steering his bicycle through the debris, and began peddling fresh fruit from an icebox strapped to the back. Len watched as he deftly chopped up a fresh pineapple and presented it in a piece of twisted palm leaf. His mouth watered. A truck drove onto the wharf and a group of civilians carrying a variety of hand baggage climbed down from it.

Their officers reappeared, striding back along the pier towards the boat. Maynard disappeared below.

‘There’s been some sort of development,’ Malcolm Henderson told the men. ‘We are going back to Singapore.’

‘Jesus wept. A life on the ocean wave, eh?’ Tim complained.

‘And we’re taking this group of civilians with us,’ Henderson added.

The group, which included several children, came shuffling tentatively towards the boats.

‘At least everything works,’ Len observed. The engines were running well, and the weaponry had passed the firing test.

‘You’re right,’ Henderson affirmed. ‘And sooner or later we’ll be putting it all to use. So look sharp, everybody.’

Anything but sharp in the heat, the men began to move. The passengers were ushered on board and shown below. The crew quickly stripped away the netting, and when first one engine and then the second fired and burst into life, they began to loosen the ropes. Both Fairmiles cast off as enemy shells began landing in the go-downs by the wharf, and they made their way swiftly out into the channel, down river and out to sea.

The two boats fell into line and headed south in broad daylight. The mood on board both vessels sharpened, and everybody scanned sea and sky for any sign of the enemy. They went sufficiently far out that something of an oceanic swell was all that disturbed the MLs’ passage.

Len manned a light machine gun on one side of the bridge, opposite Tim. He stood at his gun, resting his backside on a rail, shielding his cigarette against the wind and his eyes against the sun, scanning the eastern sky for enemy aircraft. His tin helmet was wedged in the gun’s frame in front of him.

God damn it, he thought. If Mum could see me now, she’d have a fit. She hated smoking. But when you are given twenty a day, what can you do? It was currency for some: tradeable for all manner of things. He gazed out over the tropical sea, the weather purpling into black ahead. She’d have my guts for swearing, too, he thought. He flicked his cigarette deftly over the side, and watched it spiral out and back, to drop into the foam. The wake stretched back to where he could see ML311 a couple of hundred yards astern. He thought of his father, and his brother in Egypt. He thought of Ree, and the dead uncles – John, Bill and Charlie – deep in the embrace of Hine Nui Te Pō.

Locked in thought, Len failed to hear the plane until it roared down on top of the vessel. When he looked up in shock and surprise he could clearly see the pilot, hauling back hard on the stick in an effort to climb up and away from any retaliatory fire. The bomb overshot, hit the sea on the port side and exploded, causing a column of water to rise up and fall in a deluge over the boat beneath. Len, stunned by the percussion and drenched to the bone, automatically released his safety, swept the weapon around to aim at the aircraft and pulled the trigger. A brief stream of machine-gun bullets chased after the fast-disappearing plane.

‘Hold your fire!’ He heard the order. ‘Choose your target. There’s three of them, and they’re coming back for more.’

Len watched the enemy plane as it climbed around, up and back into the sun from where it had come. There it joined two other aircraft, which were beginning to bank and inscribe an arc around the Fairmiles, circling like birds of prey. He brought the stock of his weapon to his shoulder and aimed it at the enemy planes again. He needed to be patient and concentrate; concentrate on focussing his energy as Haami had instructed. He began talking quietly to himself. ‘Come on, you bastards; come on …’

When a second aircraft detached from the group and swooped down to attack the Fairmile on its port side, it was quickly targeted. It kept flying directly towards the speeding boat, firing its own machine guns, before swooping up to release its load.

Len heard the sound of his own voice – ‘Waiting, waiting’ – and strained his neck upwards, watching for the bomb to drop. When it did, he yelled, and when someone on the bridge – it was Henderson – yelled too, the Coxswain spun the wheel and the ML swung rapidly away to dodge the explosion. Now he and Tim, manning the other gun, had plenty of time to fire a stream of bullets at the fleeing aircraft, which now sought altitude to prepare for another attack. The Fairmiles continued to dodge and weave, and twice more enemy aircraft ignored the gunfire to attack, until one lurched visibly, pulled rapidly away and climbed back to join the other aircraft. Together the planes turned away and headed off back towards Muar.

Len seemed to have crossed a threshold. He could not believe the thrill he felt. This was what Haami had talked about: wana, the thrill of combat. Some of the crew let out a whoop. Len clapped Tim on the back.

Tim said, ‘If they’d come back once more I think we would have got one.’

‘Next time,’ Len told him. He was almost looking forward to it.

But the concentration and noise of combat had concealed from most of them the fact that they had taken a hit; they’d been struck by shrapnel. From below deck came the sound of parents trying to reassure whimpering children. Len had forgotten the civilians on board. When the boat slowed, damage control reported there was some damage to the vessel, but not enough to require them to stop, so Maynard ordered that the ML continue on its original course, and they surged quickly back to speed, anxious to avoid a further attack.

★ ★ ★

It was growing dark as they motored back along the south-west coast of the island; thousands of bats were ascending from the safety of the jungle and forming great clouds in the sky above the canopy. Soon the two little ships were back inside the boom and tying up at Telok Ayer. Their exhausted passengers were released into the care of Red Cross workers.

The port had again been bombed. The Harbour Board’s office was a smoking ruin, and the adjacent gates a twisted mess. An anti-aircraft battery had received a direct hit.

An ambulance backed along the wharf towards them, and Len helped carry a wounded man on a stretcher through the smoke and into the vehicle. They set the man down between another wounded man and a dead one. Len watched the ambulance lurch away and gazed up at the sky. Tim joined him, and offered him a cigarette.

‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.

‘A gap in the clouds,’ Len replied, wistfully.

Tim looked up and saw nothing but thick smoke and low cloud. It took a moment before he understood Len’s irony.

A block away, behind the docks, a go-down that had been burning fiercely for a day finally collapsed into itself, with a crash that sent embers flying into the sky and a wall of heat radiating out to engulf the unsuspecting.

5

Rising Storm

The Fairmiles were soon ready again to resume their raiding. After resisting for nearly a week, Muar had finally been overrun. This time they were going to Batu Pahat, to where 45 Indian Brigade had fallen back. They knew that somewhere in the same vicinity was the luckless 53rd Brigade, the body of troops they had accompanied from Britain, who only a week earlier had, like the Indians, been thrust straight off the boats and into combat, woefully ill-prepared.

Mid-afternoon, two army trucks full of Royal Marines arrived at the foot of the wharf. The sailors watched the heavily armed soldiers dismount and form two groups, while two officers came smartly along the wharf and asked the whereabouts of the boats’ commanders. After a brief conference on the dockside one of them, a familiar Royal Naval Lieutenant, boarded 310 and disappeared below, while the other, Lieutenant Colonel Alan Warren, called his unit to loose order and marched them along the wharf, where they began to heave their kit up to the sailors and board the Fairmiles.

Len caught sight of Jack Kindred loosening the bow ropes on the other boat. He called out, ‘Good luck, Jack! See you later – whenever that is.’

‘Not if I see you first, mate.’

Len watched as 311 started its engines, cast off and manoeuvred out into the stream. 310 followed suit, and together the two motor launches headed out to sea. The topsides of both vessels were covered in troops, perhaps forty on each, seated along the deck, clinging to the stanchions or anything structural. They seemed to relish the occasion, leaning into the warm breeze with their eyes closed as the two boats settled into their cruise at half speed and headed into the evening.

★ ★ ★

Len was on deck smoking when the Fairmile reached Batu Pahat. It was clear that the wharves had been attacked, and one of the auxiliary vessels belonging to Coastal Operations had been hit. Smoke was still coming from the side of the ship, and, on shore, men were working, some manhandling debris into the water while others manoeuvred sandbags into the bomb cavities. A barge that had been holed in an earlier raid lay half sunk, hanging on by its ropes from part of the wharf. The ML tied up beside newly established anti-aircraft defences, a simple sandbagged emplacement with a single Bren gun pointing skyward, manned by an Indian soldier lying in firing position and scanning the sky with a fearful look on his face. While both boats lay up under nets, Len did the same, more or less, sweeping the sky for aircraft while the officers were once again in conference.

★ ★ ★

They lay up under nets all day, but as soon as night fell, both boats slipped their moorings and headed up the coast. They moved slowly, each Fairmile towing a line of three requisitioned local fishing boats, each with a group of Marines on board. They were to be dropped near Parit Jawa, to make their way inland and harass the enemy behind his lines and frustrate his advance towards Batu Pahat, and in doing so relieve the pressure on the defenders.

Nearing the danger zone now, Tim and Len stood at their guns on the open bridge wings of the Fairmile as the Coxswain steered it towards the hostile shore. Alongside the Coxswain were both the ML’s officers and the Royal Navy Lieutenant who had just boarded ML310. This was Richard Pool, another of Repulse’s survivors, who had served briefly on HDML1062 and now acted as a staff officer attached to Local Operations. Pool was directing the landing.

Len opened his ammunition locker, pulled out a belt and locked it into his weapon. He ran his hand over it and touched the safety with a finger. This was much better than being tossed around the bowels of a slow-moving target for the Luftwaffe. While he now had some control over his circumstances, though, what he really wanted was to see his enemy when they shot at one another.

He leaned back against the rail and lit a cigarette. He could feel the drag of the towed boats. He had begun to appreciate the tropics, impressed that even in the most uncomfortable of conditions there was beauty. Like tonight. The sea was calm, but sometimes the rain pelted down out of a Stygian blackness, saturating the sea and lashing the boat violently. Then there had been magic: moments when a half-moon was suddenly exposed, illuminating clouds and the seascape in burnished silver.

They slowed.

Now they were just being rained on, in a steady downpour that Len hoped would end soon. He shrugged his oilskin a bit closer. He’d mislaid his sou’wester and, to keep the rain from running down his neck now, he wore a tin hat instead. It wasn’t working. God damn it! If he wasn’t damp with sweat, he was saturated in bloody rain. He cast a glance over his shoulder at the silhouettes around him, gaining small satisfaction in the knowledge that they were bound to be at least as wet as he was.

It was so dark that the only reference to any horizon was the spray where heavy rain hit the water around them. He listened to the officers talking in low tones, the voice of Richard Pool conspicuously public school. Pool had a tendency to refer to ‘the crew’, with a certain emphasis, then pause before continuing, as if pondering the validity of the term. The shoreline was not yet discernible, but from somewhere a few miles inland came the muted sound of artillery. Len heard a call from the bridge and reached forward, releasing the safety catch on his weapon. He could now see some of the men in the kolehs, bailing out water using their helmets. The ML slowed still further as it closed to about fifty yards of a faint line of small waves breaking on the shore. Maynard ordered the engines to neutral, allowing the ML to glide slowly through the water, beam on to the shore, its weapons on the starboard side trained on the beach. The Aldis lamp on the bridge flashed a signal, and the kolehs cast off their ropes. The soldiers produced paddles and quickly began to pull for the shore. Rain and an almost flat sea made the conditions perfect: if they could get to shore and conceal the boats before the rain stopped, there would be no signs of their landing.

Len felt the boat rock gently from side to side, its engines idling. The shallowing seabed cast up modest crests that peaked before breaking softly along the shoreline. A lamp blinked twice quickly from the dark line of jungle beyond. At once the engines re-engaged, and the boat began to move again, slowly astern, and turn out to sea. The eighty men on the beach disappeared into the jungle, inland towards Bakri.

Jock appeared beside Len. ‘Help them get these ropes in, Lenny, and look lively. Let’s get out of here.’

The ML picked up speed and turned to the south. They expected to make Batu Pahat in easy time.

Going below, Len joined Tim and several others clutching mugs of chicken noodle soup: Charlie’s specialty. Charlie had killed and plucked the bird on board. There had been a lot of squawking this time, and feathers still occasionally floated up out of nowhere. Sitting in the wardroom, the crew talked among themselves, about ordinary people, the planters and their families.

‘Did you hear about McMillan’s crew?’ asked Jock.

‘You mean the refugees?’ This was from Johnno.

‘What refugees?’ Jackie joined in.

‘He and Johnny Bull were up around Swettenham somewhere,’ Johnno told them. ‘They came across a planter and his family in a koleh, way out to sea heading south.’

‘You mean to Singapore?’ Len asked him.

‘Yep. With a couple of locals. They must have sailed three hundred miles or more.’

‘So they saved them?’ Jackie again.

‘Course they did, you stupid bugger.’ Tim had joined the conversation.

‘But the locals headed back to shore, apparently,’ added Jock, slowly shaking his head.

‘You must be joking,’ said Len.

That had been a few days ago. The battle front was already much further south. They had all heard the stories by now: civilians shot, women raped and natives beheaded. Malays or Indians; it didn’t matter, but especially the Chinese, for whom, they learned, the Japanese had a particularly vicious contempt.

Len went up on deck again so he could cool down. Hot soup had that effect on a person in the tropics. He stood into the wind, luxuriating in its coolness. It wasn’t just cooling; it was cleansing, sharpening his thinking. He listened to the engines and felt their power beneath his feet. It made his teeth vibrate. He felt a nudge on his arm. It was Tim, offering a cigarette. The two of them lit up and stood smoking silently, gazing out into the darkness and letting the wind snatch the smoke from their lips.

★ ★ ★

By the end of the third week of January the Japanese had repeated their exercise in Muar; they had encircled Batu Pahat, and were now only fifty miles from Singapore.

As, one by one, the coastal towns and ports were evacuated in front of the enemy advance, the role of the MLs changed, from one of offensive raiding to relief and rescue. All the crew, Len included, thought that evacuation brought more risks than infiltration. Len felt more secure sneaking up a river with a boat full of armed men than sneaking back down it loaded with the wounded and dispirited. Being among the cowed and bleeding made Len feel vulnerable: not to attack any more but to inadequacy and the incontrovertible realisation that he could do little by himself. Watching men bleed and die did much to focus the senses. What Len most needed to do was reject any sense of futility and stand strong. Kia kaha, as Haami had put it.

Muar had been the first time Tim or Len understood what it meant to be in a land war: when they first heard enemy artillery coming towards them, explosions crunching down the road like giant footsteps, getting closer and closer as the resistance shrank towards them. Now, barely a week later, they were continually dodging the enemy’s close attention, working in the dark to snatch his prey from the beaches.

Tonight was no exception. ML310 motored quietly into the bay and entered the river below Batu Pahat, with the crew standing at their guns. Upriver, the town was burning fiercely, and the noise occasionally reached them when something flammable ignited with a boom, or a building collapsed, and flames and cinders billowed skywards. The jungle canopy created remarkable silhouettes that reflected wildly in the water. Pounded by artillery, bombed and machine-gunned from the air night and day, the town centre was now virtually destroyed. The defenders were preparing to break out, and ML310 was searching for escapees.

Slowly, the Fairmile crept upstream, hugging the shore, searching for a part of the bank with a gap in the trees where they could hide. They were to rendezvous with some Australian infantry, who they understood were being pushed towards them, ahead of the enemy advance. Ahead of them upriver, Len and Tim could hear gunfire, the crackle of small arms and the distinctive crump of mortars. The ML found a suitable place beneath some sort of embankment and nosed into the bank. Two men in the dinghy helped, poling with a gaff to assess the final depth and hauling a mooring rope to a tree onshore.

Len reached out and grasped a tree, straining to pull the boat to it as best he could. He secured a rope around the thickest section of the plant, then stepped on it with one foot, to test it. He hated getting this close to the jungle. He imagined pythons dangling from every tree, or a cobra curled up in the branches, and turned his covered torch onto the foliage, just in case.

‘Put that bloody thing out,’ hissed a voice from the bridge of the Fairmile, and Jock appeared at Len’s side. ‘Here, I’ll give you a hand to put the net up. We’re going to have to wait.’

The deck crew worked together to spread the camouflage nets over the vessel, before settling in for the rest of the night. They weren’t sure how long they would have to wait. The boat was blacked out, and conversation was conducted at a whisper.

Tim came over to Len, sat down beside him and handed him a cigarette. They lit up over a single match and smoked silently beneath the netting, cupping the cigarettes in their fists, listening to the jungle. For once, it wasn’t raining.

Their smoke drifted away.

Suddenly, unexpected noise and movement unhinged their sense of security. A monkey screamed from across the other side of the river, while above them bats glided silently through the trees. Something ruffled the water next to the boat, and both men went to the rail to look. Under the water, something big flicked away out of their sight.

‘I hate this stuff,’ Tim whispered.

A voice carried to them from somewhere along the berm. Len elbowed Tim. ‘Shhh.’

An order hissed from the bridge. ‘Put those fags out. Now!’

They heard the voice again. There was something authoritative about it; it was a staccato monotone, not the melodic language of the local Malays.

Then they heard more voices.

‘Fuck,’ Len whispered. ‘Japs!’

‘Shut up.’ Jock appeared beside them. ‘Whoever they are, they’re on our side of the fucking river! No noise. No smoking. Stand by your weapons and don’t move!’

Silently, the whole crew took defensive positions around the vessel, some armed with rifles and pistols. Len made his way up to the bridge, to his own weapon. The bastards are right on the other side of the berm, he thought. I can feel it.

He ran his hands over his weapon. Everything felt fine. Everything looked all right, as far as he could see in the faint orange glow. He reached down and wiped his hands on the rag he had wedged into the locker for the purpose, and looked down to where Jock was loosening the ropes, in case they needed to flee.

Even the animal noises had stopped now, and only the distant noises of the burning town carried across the water to where the Fairmile lay. But the silence seemed artificial. Apprehension weighed heavily on the men.

Then, the unmistakable sound of someone urinating into the river carried to the anxious crew. The little bastard was pissing only a few yards away. From behind the berm, somebody shouted. This second man appeared as a shape in the darkness, on top of the berm. He shouted again. The first little bastard shouted back. There was no mistake now. They were Japanese.

The individual by the river called out again.

The tension was stretching to breaking point.

The men on the Fairmile listened as the man made his way back from the water’s edge, complaining about something – or so it sounded. He clambered up the berm, and then the two figures disappeared down the other side, talking loudly to each other, until their voices could no longer be heard.

The tension remained, though Len for one allowed himself a deep breath. He could use a fag now. If the Japs were here, where were the bloody Australians? Nobody moved. Everybody kept vigilant, and held their fingers over their triggers. Their hearts leapt when some bird or animal let out a shriek in the darkness, victim to a predator.

Then all hell broke loose.

A distant shout was drowned suddenly in a loud explosion, followed by several more explosions of similar intensity. Mortars! Only two hundred yards from the hidden sailors, maybe closer, the Japanese had placed a mortar battery and were targeting the river bank opposite. The Aussies must have been prevented from breaking out upriver, and were now virtually surrounded on the north side of the river, pounded by enemy artillery from the southern side located only yards from their hidden rescuers. The helplessness the crew felt at their situation was subsumed by their focus on survival, so they sat silent and unmoving, concealed in the mangroves, while events took their course.

The Japanese kept up the barrage. The shells continued to sail right over the boat, until, as dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, the assault faltered, then stopped altogether. The silence was again disquieting. Len strained to listen, to hear any movement from the enemy. Behind him, the sound of small arms could be heard from the other side of the estuary.

Nobody could be sure what was happening, but the orders were to stay at full alert. Only when the sun was well up, and there had been no sound of activity for several hours, did things change. A couple of the ratings were instructed to climb to the top of the berm and see what was going on. They reported back that there was no sign of the Japanese. However, while there was plenty of action on the opposite side of the river the Fairmile remained at serious risk of attack, and so Maynard decided that they would stay concealed for the rest of the day. In the late morning, nine aircraft appeared and dropped bombs on the town, and in the mid-afternoon the town was raided again. Each time the crew watched as Japanese aircraft swooped, released their load at the end of the dive and flew straight over the top of them, before climbing back to rejoin the attack. The sailors could look up and see the underbelly of the planes overhead, but they knew that the pilots could see nothing of the sailors below.

Only after dark did the crew lower the ML’s nets and dare to make a move. Then, Maynard ordered the engines started. They worried about the noise until they settled down into their rhythm, and the vessel began to ride the downstream current as quickly and as quietly as it could. They clung to the treeline until sea and sky melded once more, and then headed out to the security of the open sea and darkness.

★ ★ ★

An hour passed. Len was at his second favourite position on deck, behind the fo’c’sle, smoking. Looking towards the shore, he could see the glow of distant fires. Often while at sea at night they saw artillery exchanges, orange flashes of high explosives or the brilliance of flares illuminating a distant landscape. ML310 was cruising south again at sixteen knots – not quite optimum speed – as if anticipating something. It came in the form of a radio message. Len saw the vexed look on Maynard’s face as he and his deputy turned to the chart table. This was followed shortly by instruction to the Coxswain. The boat immediately arced towards the coast, and the crew was instructed once more to strip for action. They were to attempt another extraction, only a few miles south of where they had been. Len flicked his cigarette over the side and went to his station. He ran his hands over his weapon, reached down and wiped his hands on the rag.

Within ten minutes the shore fires seemed much closer – whole villages were now blazing like beacons along the coast. Five more minutes and they were close enough to see shell-bursts in the distant jungle: sudden blooms of high explosive. Eventually, drawing ever closer to shore, and moving more slowly, they began to hear the action, the sound carried offshore by the breeze. The same wind brought the benefit of carrying their own engine noise away. Their speed slowed to a crawl, and by the time they could see the shoreline and find the meet point, it had begun to rain again. The Fairmile dropped a plough and swung into the wind. Maynard ordered the engines stopped and relative silence fell, save for the crump of mortars and the sound of artillery inland, against the persistent hiss of rain falling on a moderate sea. They had sixty minutes to wait before the rendezvous. About forty minutes in, they began to detect movement in the jungle.

Suddenly a number of shadows emerged and moved rapidly down the sand towards the water. A voice shouted out, ‘Don’t shoot. We’re Aussies. Don’t shoot.’

A shot rang out. All movement stopped.

‘We’re Aussies, fuck ya!’

‘What’s the password?’ Henderson shouted out.

‘Illawarra, mate,’ came the reply. ‘Ulladulla. I dunno what the fucking password is; nobody told me. We’re not Japs, and neither are you.’

The men from the jungle began to move more cautiously towards the boat – tall men, big men in slouch hats.

Maynard turned to his First Officer, who spoke for him. ‘Get those men on board. Now! Get a rope ashore. How many are there?’

Sailors jumped into the water and waded to the beach to assist. They strung a rope from a stanchion at the stern to shore and tied it to a palm. One after the other, soldiers were helped into the water and pulled along the rope to the launch, where they were hauled aboard. They were all in an extreme state of exhaustion, their uniforms torn and stained, but still clutching their small arms. Another group of about eight more soldiers came out of the jungle onto the beach. Then another. In all, over forty men emerged onto the beach.

An Australian sergeant identified himself, and explained that the men were remnants of an anti-tank company defending the rear of the retreating Westforce. He conducted some sort of quick muster, after which Maynard made the decision to leave. Many of the soldiers were wounded. Some of their company had been left behind, killed or wounded, captured or lost in the fighting. Nothing seemed capable of stopping the Japanese.

Singapore was now only fifty miles away.

As the Fairmile headed away from the rendezvous with its party of evacuees, Maynard and Henderson met with the sergeant in the tiny wardroom below. It didn’t take long for the ratings to find out what had happened from other soldiers. Len listened carefully while one of the Australians described the chaos.

‘We were refused permission to withdraw, and then we were attacked in the rear. The only way out was west, to the coast.’

When they were finally ordered to make their way to a rendezvous point, they were almost encircled, and the battle had become a race to escape that they seemed destined to lose.

‘We lost a lot of men. We thought we were buggered.’

The sailors handed out hot black tea and collected empty mugs. Plenty of tea spilt on the deck, to mix with the blood of the wounded, but nobody complained, and the rain that had masked their evacuation quickly washed it away. The Fairmile headed south at half speed, slinking along the coast towards Singapore.

Len steadied himself against the boat’s movements, studying the forlorn picture. Exhausted soldiers sat along the deck, squeezed against the gunwale with their backs to the superstructure. Others dangled their legs over the side, propped up against a stanchion, not caring if their feet were wet. Len thought that perhaps they found it soothing. All had Tūmatauenga’s red-rimmed stare of battle fatigue, and gazed out into the darkness, unseeing and unspeaking, as the Fairmile powered them to safety. The noise of the engines frustrated all conversation, allowing them to retreat further within themselves.

★ ★ ★

Inside the anti-submarine net, 310 made its way into Keppel Harbour and nosed into the dock, where two ratings onshore grabbed the rope and threw it over a bollard. Two ratings from the boat now stepped ashore and carried another rope aft, placing it over a second bollard, and while the stern was being brought into the mooring, medical personnel on the wharf were already jumping across the divide and seeking out the needy. Some Australian nurses appeared, clearly newly arrived. Len noticed with amazement how Jock Brough hovered over them like a hawk, solicitous to their every need, but not for a moment letting them onto his boat. The Law of the Sea would not allow women on board, and the Coxswain was a staunch enforcer of this rule, even if those women were nurses.

‘Hallelujah,’ said one of the wounded, on hearing the nurses’ accents. ‘We’re back in Australia already.’

Next to them, the old Laburnum lay, still tied up at the dock, while around them the continuous destruction wrought by the enemy was all too apparent. More go-downs had been hit. Several that had been full of raw sugar burned fiercely with an unmistakable odour that happily overcame the smell of burning rubber and the nauseating stench of death, if only temporarily. The Japanese were concentrating raids on the docks and Navy facilities, attempting to disrupt any landing of troops or material and to destroy means of escape. At the Naval base on the northern side of the island, demolition teams had already destroyed equipment, including the heavy lift cranes, but the floating and dry docks still functioned. The order was given to reprioritise the maintenance schedule and get all vessels that could be floated made seaworthy and employed in evacuation. The timing was crucial, because over the next few days, air raids increased in size and frequency. The air force’s old Buffalos had been destroyed on the ground, and its remaining Hurricanes were too few to stop the Japanese in the air. Refugees from the mainland were pouring over the Johor Causeway in increasingly unmanageable numbers, and the city was forced to accommodate another half a million people. The place was not as they had left it.

As the soldiers were shepherded away, a shore party of sailors returned, reporting all sorts of problems. The traffic was so chaotic it had taken them an hour to travel a distance that had previously taken minutes. They were complaining that half their time had been spent in traffic, and only a few hours spent drinking. Most roads were blocked by fallen buildings, debris or fire hoses. Others were blocked with people. Maynard was circumspect about granting further shore leave.

Tim and Len stood before him now, pleading their case. Tim nudged Len as he petitioned their Commanding Officer. ‘We’ll only go half the distance, sir. No problem.’

Len looked at his friend and shook his head. Humour was lost on the CO. Eventually Maynard gave up, and granted several hours’ shore leave. They headed off into the city while the MLs returned to their moorings off Pulau Brani.

★ ★ ★

If there had been any sense of their being outmanoeuvred by escalating Japanese aggression previously, that had changed now, replaced by incontrovertible evidence that the city and its defences were being systematically destroyed. As they made their way along the harbour’s edge, they were stopped frequently to allow emergency vehicles right of way, or heavy machinery to clear the road. Burning debris was being bulldozed into piles. Bodies, too, dozens of bodies, lay beside the road in some sort of order, as if to spite the chaos. A Chinese man sat on the road cradling the body of his wife and wailing uncontrollably while their small child clung desperately to the dead woman’s clothing. Elsewhere lay unclaimed limbs and body parts, too grim to handle. The sailors were assaulted by the insufferable odour of decomposing bodies beneath the wreckage, and by the heat that flared occasionally from the fires raging all along the way.

Groups of civilians continued to wend their way through the destruction. Many were carrying children or old people; others were hauling rickshaws or handcarts piled with their modest possessions, away from the destruction of the inner city to the relative safety of the outskirts. Malays who customarily worked on the island had been relieved of their duties and allowed to return to the mainland to protect their families.

Tim, Len, Jackie, Jock and Jack Kindred decided to head away from the water, walking several blocks before selecting a bar, The Golden Orchid. The fancy name concealed the fact that the bar was a hole-in-the-wall, a one-man operation so small that they practically filled the place. The owner made them welcome and put a bowl of unshelled peanuts on the board that served as a bar in front of them. Cold beers in cold glasses had them all exclaim in feigned ecstasy, and no little surprise, especially as there was clearly no electricity. No ceiling fans. No radio. No fridge.

‘Must be an ice box,’ Jock said. ‘Bloody good businessman.’

Len was first away to the toilet. While he was looking for the WC, he noticed a large mobile refrigeration unit a short distance away behind the bar, with a military generator chugging along beside it. He stood at the urinal and watched through the louvred windows as the barman left the bar, opened the door of the fridge unit and carried out a dozen beers. Shortly after, two ambulance men arrived and carried a body on a stretcher out from the same unit. Len had become so inured to the spectre of war, he wasn’t sure if he was appalled or amused. Back at the bar he said nothing, but raised his glass with the rest of them.

‘Absent friends,’ Len said. They all took a long draught.

Jack raised his glass again. ‘Lofty.’ And they all drank again.

Jock topped up his glass, put his bottle down and sniffed at his hand.

‘Why do I smell … formaldehyde?’

At this precise moment, air-raid sirens began to wind up eerily. It was 2 p.m.; the Japanese were nothing if not punctual.

The bar owner immediately began to flap, literally, in his efforts to force the men out onto the street, but they remained staunchly in their seats. Len reached out with his arms and touched both sides of the bar. The walls were closing in. This was not England. This was Singapore, where the enemy was so close now his hot breath could be felt. He imagined himself as a crayfish, wedged in his crevice.

By now the sirens were wailing.

‘It would be damned bad luck for a bomb to land on this bar. It’s the smallest in the Far East,’ Tim said. ‘I reckon we’re as safe here as anywhere. Five more Tigers, thanks, mate.’

The barman capitulated and the beers arrived as anti-aircraft fire began to concentrate.

Jackie said, ‘I hope we’re far enough away from the dock.’

The sirens stopped, but there was no bombing, just the familiar sound of defensive fire, which began to dissipate then stopped completely. From within the little bar, they could see that the air was filled with paper: thousands of leaflets, which fluttered down and piled in small drifts in the street. The barman went out and gathered some and brought them inside.

They all began to read.

In bold type at the top was the word ‘ADMONITION’, and below that was a carefully worded message from the Japanese: propaganda justifying their aggression and encouraging Britain to surrender her army and her territories.

I imagine the state of mind of you who have done so well your duty, isolated without any rescue and now surrounded by our army …

There’s nothing wrong with my state of mind! Len thought. I know who my enemy is. Everywhere I look I see the results of his destruction. I know my duty.

The sirens began to wail again, announcing the All Clear. Len read on:

Upon my words we don’t kill you, treat you as officers and soldiers if you come to us.

But if you resist against us we will give you swords.

6

We Will Give You Swords

Over the last week of January, as the Japanese continued to roll back a disorganised defence, the Naval Officer Commanding Malaya, Rear Admiral Ernest Spooner, was supervising the evacuation of all specialist personnel from Singapore. The launch flotilla engaged in local patrols and ferrying personnel as the scope of their operations became progressively smaller. There was a concern about conserving the 90 octane that the big petrol engines needed. There was also a suspicion that fifth columnists were contaminating the supply. Reinforcements disembarked into an environment of disorder and destruction. They encountered firemen, civilians, even battle-weary troops working to overcome the fires and stem the flow of vital water from burst mains, and discovered an atmosphere of chaos and despondency. Japanese fighters strafed the city unimpeded.

On 31 January, four troopships arrived in Keppel Harbour, carrying the British 18th Division, and intending to disembark them onto the Empire Dock, where some of the worst bomb damage was. Equipment was piling up for want of dispersal, and the landing was anything but orderly. Having spent the night on patrol, Len and the crew on 310 were sitting on deck resting, with mugs of Charlie’s tea between their knees. There was little conversation, but Len for one sat wondering at the value of delivering more men into a campaign that gave every impression of being already lost. Flights of Japanese bombers flew low overhead and sharpened their interest. What were they doing, if not bombing the city? Shortly after, from the Malacca Straits came the sound of action, and a dense column of black smoke began to climb into the sky, inevitably signifying a strike. A series of shouted commands brought the men on ML310 quickly to their feet. They immediately slipped their moorings and put to sea.

The oldest ship in the convoy, Empress of Asia, had fallen behind as the rest of the convoy sped up in order to reach its destination before the Japanese could find them. Isolated, the liner was targeted by Japanese dive-bombers and set ablaze. Happily, the enemy aircraft soon ceased their attack and so, while the convoy carried on, some vessels raced to render assistance to the several thousand troops on board the lame duck. 310 was one of those that arrived at the scene. Under a pall of smoke and with flames billowing out from the rear superstructure of the stricken ship, she took her turn to nose into the bow and take off as many men as she could. Around them floated some of the Empress’s lifeboats, which had been successfully launched, as well as men in life jackets clinging to their sides or grasping at the ropes being flung towards them. Even as Len pulled at the nets that hung down from the ship, steadying them while soldiers swarmed down them to safety, others were jumping from above. Len saw fear in some men’s eyes as they boarded, but most followed his instructions: they stoically made their way aft and sat or stood quietly. Soon, however, 310 was dangerously overloaded, and reversed engines.

The ship was successfully evacuated, and all but sixteen men survived. By the time 310 returned to Keppel Harbour and offloaded the evacuees, Len and the others were exhausted. Remarkably, the Empress of Asia was the only vessel to be sunk on a Singapore convoy. This particular convoy turned out to be the last to bring reinforcements to the island fortress.

That same night, 31 January, the causeway was blown up. Richard Pool came back on board 310 the following morning from the Admiral’s office where he had been working.

‘We blew the causeway last night,’ he announced, and continued describing how he had watched a group of Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders cross the causeway, preceded by bagpipes piping ‘Highland Laddie’ before engineers blew a seventy-yard section of it to smithereens.

‘It was magnificent,’ he enthused.

Len shook his head. He continued to be amazed at the British preoccupation with ceremony, even in a city under siege. As far as he could see, the event was not something to be celebrated. Overhead, a huge pall of dense black smoke rising from the burning tank farm at the Naval Base twenty miles away nearly covered the city. Len could feel the walls getting closer.

★ ★ ★

From 01 February, a state of siege prevailed on the island. The media and other authorities were cautioned about even using the word, or being at all defeatist in their language, but when it became apparent shortly afterwards that the Naval fuel dump had been deliberately destroyed to prevent it falling into enemy hands, morale within the desperate population descended to a new low.

On 01 February a new set of orders was issued to the launch flotilla. The Fairmiles and HDMLs were assigned to operate in the Johor Strait, conducting inshore patrols from Pasir Lebar in the west to Pulau Ubin in the east. There were also personnel changes. Lieutenant Maynard was replaced as CO on ML310 by Johnny Bull, who had been promoted after very effective service as Colin McMillan’s First Officer on HDML1062. Tim was glad of the change, as was Len, who wondered if Pool had had anything to do with it. Richard Pool had proved to be a bit of an unknown quantity – he was apparently capable, but still possessed a youthful mix of naivety and ambition. Len had seen Maynard call on him when they were attacked by bombers off Muar, and on occasions, when Maynard had hesitated, Pool or Malcolm Henderson had stepped up and given commands. It was obvious to Len that Pool regarded Maynard a little contemptuously, and his attitude towards the ratings wasn’t much different. Len had learned on Alynbank that Regular Navy was inclined to be that way with Volunteer Reservists.

Sub-Lieutenant Bull RNZNVR was well pleased with his new command. He inherited a crew that had matured into a highly efficient unit. His Executive Officer was solid, the Coxswain enjoyed a lot of respect among the officers as well as the other ratings and the engine room was in good hands. The rest of his crew was self-motivated and required little instruction. Overall, the crew seemed to enjoy their work, and the Fairmile proved the perfect vessel for them – small, quick and responsive.

The crew in turn greeted Johnny’s arrival with enthusiasm – especially the Kiwis. They were serving at last under a Kiwi commander, and they felt their confidence strengthen in their knowledge of the man himself and their shared background.

‘Good on you, sir. Welcome aboard,’ Tim said to Johnny, on the group’s behalf.

On 04 February, their confidence was put to the test. It was decided to send two engineer observers on a mission, to reassess the western Straits’ defensive needs and the size and intent of any Japanese force that they might find. The Commander Far East, General Wavell, was firmly of the belief that the Japanese would attack across the Straits from the north-west and head by the most direct route to the heart of the city. General Percival, Commander Singapore and Wavell’s subordinate, did not share this view, believing that the attack would more likely come from the north-east, targeting the strategically important Naval Base. But he had to demonstrate obedience to his superiors, even if he lacked intent, and a reconnaissance was undertaken, and the job was given to ML310.

That night, when darkness descended, the Fairmile shrugged off its camouflage and started its engines. The air was heavy, with low cloud and high humidity, lit only to the north-east by the intense glow of the burning oil tanks. ML311 had already disappeared from its mooring on a mission of its own when the two officer observers arrived, and 310 cast off and headed quietly into the night. The briefing stressed the need for silence throughout the mission, and, to avoid the possibility of detection, the vessel moved at a low speed and kept to the southern side of the strait in the beginning. Eventually, when the ML had reached the end of its assigned passage, it motored even more quietly across to the opposite side and began its journey home. If the enemy had reached the northern shores of the straits, they would be sailing right under his nose.

Tonight Len and Tim had been tasked with manning the forward three-inch gun, as a team. Tim as gun layer opened the ammunition locker and laid and locked a magazine into the weapon’s breech. Len took the gunner’s seat and sat at his gun, occasionally – automatically – running his hand over the weapon, taking reassurance from its familiarity beneath his touch. He cranked it through its firing arc, then sat back into his seat and reached for a cloth to wipe his hands.

The same conditions that were hiding the ML from detection were also obscuring any sign of the enemy. He could be anywhere; except for the gentle throb of the engines under foot and the occasional burble of the exhausts, they heard and saw nothing. The men looked for any clues, and cocked their ears for other sounds, but there was nothing. Once something in the water, animal perhaps, splashed away in the dark. Twice they bumped into a log or something solid. These were heart-pounding moments that passed with a deep breath and a relaxation of the men’s trigger fingers. They were under instructions not to fire unless fired upon.

And so the time passed.

Nothing.

After eight hours of gentle passage, the city’s fires appeared in front of them again, and they were back on a mooring as the sun rose. 311 followed soon after.

Both Fairmile crews were then offered a brief stand-down; some took shore leave while others elected to stay on board. They had acquired an extra dinghy, an inflatable, so about ten men from both boats secured a short-term pass and took off in the two small tenders. Len, Tim and Jackie welcomed Jack Kindred from 311. At the dockyard gates, while they stood in line to present their passes, Lieutenant Pool drove past them in a civilian vehicle, pushing his way through the people thronging the gates, and headed off towards the city on some business or other, offering no acknowledgement at all. Behind Pool’s vehicle came a lorry, one of dozens that continued to be landed, jamming the dockyards. It drew abreast of the men as they emerged onto the street, and Tim yelled out to the driver, ‘Mate, where are you headed?’

‘Raffles ’otel. You looking for a ride? ’op in,’ the Cockney driver replied.

The men clambered into the back of the truck while Len followed Tim up and into the cab. The driver crashed the gears and took off with a lurch.

‘I’ll get my arse kicked, but what the ’ell. In the scheme of things I doubt if any bastard will notice.’

They rarely got beyond first gear. All along the roadside, vehicles lay derelict, damaged or destroyed. Reinforcements that had landed from the Empress of Asia found themselves mixing with parts of the retreating army, which was now filling the city. Leaderless units lay about exhausted, despondent and angry: an anger that was compounded hugely by the spectre of new and unused weapons and equipment being pushed straight off the dock and into the sea. This did nothing for morale. Australian troops in particular, volunteer members of the Australian Imperial Force, newly arrived and with only the most basic of training, became extremely agitated by their assessment of the circumstances, and many could be seen huddled in groups on corners, drinking from bottles, broken glass strewn about them. Some were violently disposed; from one group bottles came flying through the air to land on the road in front of the lorry. Nobody seemed to be keeping discipline.

Away from the shore, the cost of the war to the ordinary citizens again confronted the sailors. More bodies lay on street corners, piled waiting for removal. People scrabbled at rubble, pulling at pieces of bloodied clothing, body parts perhaps, or dragging other items to safety. Len turned away from the sight of an old woman squatting beside the body of her dead husband, wailing dismally and beating herself on the temple with a piece of brick. Nobody was giving her any notice. A cry drew everybody to another section of the wreckage, and the truck moved slowly on. They drove around the Padang, past several anti-aircraft emplacements, and eventually arrived at the entrance of Raffles Hotel. The driver dragged on the handbrake and turned the engine off. Tim and Len shook his hand, wished him luck and joined the others, who were climbing down at the rear.

‘Bugger me. Will you look at that,’ said Johnno, and they all looked to where he was pointing, to see Pool’s car parked under a fan palm to the side of the drive.

‘Come on,’ said somebody. ‘Let’s go and find the bastard. He can buy us a drink!’

They all headed for the entrance. As they climbed the stairs a huge Sikh, in full hotel livery, headed them off, threw up a large hand and barred their way inside.

‘I’m sorry gentlemen, but this is off limits to everybody but officers. You may not enter.’

They baulked like sheep, bumping into each other before stopping. The Sikh gave Charlie a sideways glance, looking him up and down.

‘Come on, mate,’ Tim said. ‘Just one drink. Our favourite lieutenant is inside, and he’s dying to see us, I’m sure.’

‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. You may not enter. Only officers may enter.’

And that was that. Uniformed officers of every distinction passed them by, and numerous civilians in linen jackets. The sound of band music wafted from somewhere inside.

Conditions in the city were so dire that most protocols had been modified, if not actually abandoned. The idea of a black-out was redundant now the city was on fire. People fiddled while the city burned. The sailors hoped that they might be allowed into what was an officers’ mess. But no, they weren’t going to get past the Doorman.

‘Fuck them. I’m off to the Mayfair, mates. Who’s coming with me?’ called out Jackie, confident he would not be doing so alone.

‘Count me in, Jackie. I fancy a nice bowl of prawns,’ said Len, who’d developed a genuine taste for the local delicacy.

Others weren’t so enthusiastic for the food.

‘It’s a beer for me! Or two,’ added Tim.

‘And a woman for me,’ shouted Jock. ‘Or two!’

‘Good on ya, Jock.’ They all cried out in unison.

Strangely, there was plenty of alcohol available in Singapore. While all stocks had been ordered to be destroyed, some Customs bond stores had been broken open by bombing and sacked of their contents, and a surprising amount of liquor had found its way onto the streets.

At the Mayfair there was liquor, there were still prawns, and there were the women, of course. Inside, little, if anything, appeared to have changed. Len was a cautious drinker, but he was learning. He was also a slow starter when it came to women. He rather liked to watch people’s social behaviour. Tim was a watcher, but for a different reason. She was called Ava. The two were talking quietly to each other, about the extra machine guns that were to be fitted to their boats and the likely meaning of this, when the air-raid sirens began to wind up.

‘Damn it,’ said Tim. ‘Just when you’re beginning to relax!’

Len went over and shook a couple of the men from their group awake. They reached for their glasses one more time. As the sirens reached the height of their wail, the men who had been upstairs, including an embarrassed Charlie, came back down the stairs, dragging on shirts and doing up belts. The women hustled the sailors to the door and accepted flamboyant gestures of affection and farewell. One last pat on the backside, one last wave – and the sailors were gone, heading back towards the Padang, looking for a ride.

They weren’t so lucky this time. The bombing was intense, and the incendiaries were designed to incinerate the wooden city and its defenders. They walked much of the distance and hitched short rides, standing on the running boards of passing vehicles. At one point, when one pattern of the bombing tracked straight at them, they were obliged to dive into the storm-water ditch by the roadside. The blast scattered dust and grit over them, and the ditch water was foul, but they were safe. When the wave of bombing passed, they got up and moved on.

When they finally reached the docks, they showed their passes to the MPs and headed to where they had left their dinghies, tied up under one of the piers. In doing so, they had to pass through go-downs that had just received a direct hit and were burning fiercely. The heat was so intense that at first they considered another route – but there was none. So they held bits of iron and planking over their heads like umbrellas and raced past the hot spots. The go-down at the end of the wharf had been breached in the attack, and half of it was burning. But the other half offered a better route to their dinghies, and so they took it.

Sirens wailed an All Clear.

As Len and Tim led the way through the debris, they stepped on material that felt like marbles under foot. Len stooped to inspect whatever it was, and stopped. He picked some of it up. ‘Have a look at this, mate.’

Tim stooped down beside him and picked a piece out of Len’s hand. He looked closely at it.

‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

The others stopped. Len rolled two stones in the palm of his hand for all to see. They glistened yellow in the enflamed light. Others reached down and picked up bits of the stuff.

‘It looks like gold. This is gold. Look at it! It’s bloody gold.’ Tim was almost shouting.

‘Bollocks. Give me a look,’ responded a sceptical Johnno.

The men started to look around, prodding at the shambles with their feet, turning over bits and pieces of debris, inspecting them like policemen looking for clues at a crime scene. In the kaleidoscopic light of a night on fire, they were looking at small ingots of metal about the size of a thumbnail strewn across the floor of the burning warehouse. The fire had caused some of the more exposed lumps to heat up, and a couple of the men who had picked them up yelped in surprise and dropped them straight away. Others turned into better light. It was difficult to tell, but it became clear, as each of them took the opportunity to look more closely, that this was gold. Small ingots of bright yellow twenty-four-carat gold of the sort favoured by Orientals to fill teeth or make jewellery. They traced it to a series of damaged crates.

‘Jesus. What do we do now?’

They stood in a circle around the mess of crates, heads bowed, staring into the lustre scattered at their feet. Mesmerised.

Broken shopfronts and burst warehouses everywhere offered easy pickings to any passer-by. Shore and military police were preoccupied, protecting evacuation zones and what was left of military assets. Nobody was giving a damn about much else these days. What if? Even if the men did pocket the stuff, things were so bad they’d be bloody lucky to survive. So … what the hell? And besides, they had taken their fair share of risk. Were they going to leave this for the Japanese? They were all having similar thoughts. Then Johnno seized the initiative.

‘Come on. Grab a crate and see if we can get it to the boat,’ he instructed.

It took two men to lift one crate comfortably: each weighed about a hundredweight. In the end, it was pretty obvious they could only cope with two crates. At least they had two dinghies. With a great deal of effort, they lugged the crates as far as they could, through the go-down and over to the ladder where the dinghies were. Getting the crates down and into the dinghies was a precarious exercise that nearly failed more than once, but the incentive was more than sufficient. In the end, they paddled back with their prize towards the two Fairmiles, shrouded in nets at their moorings.

As they approached the launches, they held a whispered discussion. Where were they going to hide the gold? They did not want the officers to know about it – they were good blokes, but would be duty-bound to take it seriously. They quickly agreed to follow Jack’s suggestion to secrete it in the transom of 311, where there was an empty paint locker. Everybody on board 311 appeared to be asleep still, so they distracted the watch and gently lowered the crates into this stowage and closed it. As they were performing this task, the men said nothing. They simply shook their heads in amazement, grinned and patted each other on the back. Then they split up and tried to find some sleep.

That night, however, sleep was not something any of the sailors got in any quantity. First thing in the morning, the boat was repositioned in order to fix supplementary armaments to it. The Fairmiles had been designed and built to be adaptable. Weapons and equipment could be reconfigured speedily, bolted to steel strips fixed to the decking, and men now fitted half a dozen extra machine guns to the decking of both vessels. Len helped bring sandbags on board and positioned them around each new fitting, to provide some basic protection. By the late afternoon, when the extra ammunition had been loaded, the vessel was sitting a little lower in the water.

The men anticipated the call to action, but it did not arrive immediately. The Staff Command was still equivocating over where to deploy its resources, and Percival still did not buy into the idea that he was most at risk in the west. He dismissed the initiatives offered by his Chief Engineer, Brigadier Ivan Simson, who recommended a wide range of creative defensive measures. One such involved cannibalising motor vehicles and using the headlights to illuminate the Straits against the possibility of an amphibious assault. Instead, Percival removed a lot of material that had been positioned for the defence of the west and moved it east. Shenton Thomas, the Governor of the Straits Settlements, made his own facile contribution to morale invoking sport as a motivating image, saying ‘We are all in the hands of God, from whom we can get comfort in our anxieties, and the strength to play the man.’

It was decided that there would be no Naval activity in the Straits at night, to leave open fields of fire to the army should an attack of some sort occur. For this reason, the launch flotilla lay idle for a couple of days. The circumstances were tailor-made for an intelligent, resourceful and experienced enemy to attack.

On 08 February, Japanese troops did cross the Straits, and from the north-west, as Wavell had predicted. About 13,000 of them, in two waves. By the following evening, the crews on both Fairmiles were alert and active, stripping the boats for action. The enemy occupied both sides of the Straits, and was preparing to launch another amphibious crossing, and the two Fairmiles were about to sail right into him.

Several members of the same independent company whose officers had made the previous reconnaissance then boarded, to man the extra guns. The sailors on 310 welcomed them with solemn handshakes, and while Charlie provided mugs of hot tea, the launch slipped her mooring. Len looked across to the other Fairmile as both picked up a little speed to meet their ordained start point in time, and saw Jack Kindred in the gloom working on the aft deck. He gave an exaggerated wave, to which Jack responded in kind, and both returned to their tasks with a smile on their faces. It was going to be a while before either could smile again.

Len turned back into the wind and made his way forward to his gun. Tim appeared beside him, slapped him on the back and set about loading. As was his habit, Len ran his hands over the barrel, then over the gun’s breach – first open, then closed. He leaned his right shoulder against the gunstock and reached forward with his right hand for the trigger grip, brass and cool in his grasp. He squinted through the gun sight into the darkness and trained the weapon port and starboard of the bow. Then he brought the safety back a notch and stood easy, wiping his hands.

Behind the two Fairmiles, an eerie light prevailed. There was an overarching glow of orange reflecting off the dense cloud of oil smoke that blanketed the sky. Their passage this time took them down the middle of the strait, at slow speed. To starboard, on the island, the horizon was lit by the city’s fires, but in the middle distance, disturbingly, they saw other flames flickering in the jungle canopy, surely signs of recent combat. Occasionally the bloom of an explosion rose skywards, followed sometimes by a faint report. Len stole a look up at the bridge, where he could see Johnny, Malcolm Henderson and Richard Pool, who had been assigned the role of Gunnery Officer at the last minute. Out in the channel, from where last night’s invasion force had come, it was becoming unfathomably black. Those who manned the port-side guns strained their eyes for any movement. Len swung his gun around and pointed the barrel into the darkness. There was enough movement in the air to make hearing difficult. That, and the low rumble of engine noise. Occasionally there was the sound of a frightened bird beating its way across the water, and from the jungle on the island, the disconcerting crackle of gunfire.

They crept further along the coast. Only half their anxiety for the task was about finding the enemy and destroying him. They had seen his work, and were keen to make him pay. The other half was for their survival.

Len was frustrated – no, irritated – that he had been a target in so many ways and had yet to even see his enemy.

Then suddenly, like an apparition, several small native craft – kolehs – full of armed men appeared from out of the gloom heading towards the island, and forged right across their bow. None of the men in any of the boats had time to think. Those in the kolehs looked up in horror as 310, following agreed procedure, simply rammed the kolehs, which immediately sank. The men on board were flung into the water. Len just had time to train his gun on one unfortunate craft before it disappeared under the Fairmile in two halves. The image of Japanese struggling silently under the weight of their equipment before they too disappeared beneath the water was not one he had anticipated.

The two vessels continued on, cautious and undetected. The Straits were getting narrower, and they were getting closer and closer to the blown causeway and the need to turn back.

Where was the enemy now?

Disquieted, Len wound the safety off. They continued to glide quietly through the water.

The light from the burning oil tanks now made a difference. As they reached the mouth of the Kranji River, flowing from the island into the Straits, they faced a wide stretch of open water. Flames, leaping high into the air at times, occasionally illuminated the whole area. After probing along the waterway for three hours, they were now obliged to turn back. Every man on board knew the risks would now heighten. Len worked his gun’s breech, an act of reassurance. He belted on his harness, hitched the stock to his shoulder and spread his feet. There was no armour on the gun because, in the initial haste to get the MLs seaworthy, the bulletproof shielding had never been fitted. He stood fully exposed on the foredeck, ready for anything, his right hand clamped onto the pistol grip. One of the things that appealed to him as a gunner was that this ‘pistol’ shot a three-pound shell.

The launches made a wide-arced turn across the Straits and reversed direction. Now they were closer to the northern shore. The road from Johor Bahru followed the coast west. From the water they could see movement: a truck convoy, lights shielded, carrying men and material inevitably towards assembly and embarkation. Johnny called for more speed and ordered his Coxswain to track closer and closer to the road. Then, before the enemy was alerted, he ordered fire onto the convoy, but there came no response. Richard Pool had mislaid the whistle with which he was supposed to give the signal to fire! Johnny immediately yelled out, ‘Fire at will!’

At once, a stream of bullets and shells raked the road. Behind them, 311 followed suit. The three-pounder could deliver twenty rounds a minute. Len – almost gleefully – loosed off a cluster of shots: more than he’d fired in his entire war so far. He felt the wana flood his veins, and he and his weapon became one. He could see his own shots striking the shore. All he had to do was adjust his angle. Vehicles stopped, some clearly hit, one exploding in a fireball from which small-calibre ammunition began to shoot out in every direction. Men, some of whom were themselves on fire, could be seen jumping from their trucks. Len sent another half a dozen rounds into the enemy convoy.

Something whanged off his gun barrel. He ducked impulsively.

The boat held its course. There was a shout from the bridge. ‘Starboard, one twenty! Range five hundred. Bring fire onto that building, before they find our range!’

The building they could see as a dark shape on a rise overlooking the road. Len swung his gun right around and fired a cluster of shots shoreward. He watched with satisfaction as they stitched a pattern of explosions across the face of the building. Suddenly, from the shore, a searchlight began to flare, and then a second. As the lamps gathered their intensity, they swung down and swept the water, seeking out the attacking launches. Now the danger from returning fire was acute.

Len didn’t need any orders. He swung the gun around, aiming at the base of the lights. He sent a ranging shot away at a low angle and saw the shell strike in front of the lights. He raised his sight a little and sent off a second shell, but this had no discernible impact. While the sea state was effectively calm, the movement of the boat imposed little handicap. Without hesitation, Len now loosed a fusillade of shells towards the searchlights, and the lamps disappeared in a cluster of explosions. Tim slammed another magazine into the breech. Johnny gave instructions, and Jock brought the launch to full throttle and swung away, reducing its profile from both shores. The Fairmile ducked and weaved until it was obvious that they were hidden by the darkness and out of range. Behind them, the burning trucks, strung out along the northern shore, receded into the distance.

The crew now worked to ready themselves in case of further action. Len was surprised to look down and discover a pile of empty shell casings strewn across the deck beneath his gun. He had been so focussed during the action that he had heard little and seen nothing other than his gun barrel. He kicked the casings over the side. Miraculously, no damage was reported. The boat slowed back to a more stealthy speed and continued to head back towards safety. ML311 was somewhere in the darkness.

In returning, they came to the location of their earlier encounter, running into debris, a section of a smashed boat, material and a single body floating in the water. They stopped and briefly inspected the scene. Then, satisfied that there were no other infiltrators, they motored on without incident for Keppel Harbour, and eventually tied up beside Laburnum.

As 311 tied up alongside them, Johnno emerged from the engine room and came up on deck, breathing deeply and wiping his hands on his overalls.

‘Jesus. That was a bit of fun,’ Tim said, to nobody in particular.

‘Oh yeah? Come and have a look at this then,’ Johnno replied.

His words had an urgency about them, as well as an air of mystery. A couple of the men, including Len and Tim, peered down into the mess room.

‘Jesus,’ Tim said, under his breath.

On the mess-room table lay an unexploded shell.

A call went out for Johnny, who turned out to be in the wardroom preparing to write his report. In response to the men’s summons, he, Henderson and Pool stepped into the mess.

‘How the hell …?’

Johnny was expressing what everybody else was thinking. But in fact, nobody gave a damn about how the shell had got there. They were suddenly very interested in how to get rid of it.

‘Len’s had a bit of experience with bomb disposal, sir,’ Tim suggested.

Len shot Tim a look. They had both helped Lofty get rid of the last one.

Len picked it up. Johnny turned the shell over in Len’s hands. ‘Made in Birmingham’ was clearly stamped on it.

‘What a bloody shambles,’ Johnny said, and left the cabin, shaking his head. Nobody was quite sure whether he was referring to the mess room or the campaign.

Henderson told Len to ‘get rid of it,’ and, with Pool following on, disappeared back into the officers’ wardroom.

During the mission, the enemy had engaged with only a single gun, which had registered the only hit on either vessel. Incredibly, it appeared that this shell had passed through the hull and one of the petrol tanks before stopping. Fortunately, the petrol tanks on the Fairmiles were self-sealing, so there had been no explosion. On inspection, the sailors found that one of the steering cables had been damaged, and a number of its strands had been severed. There was no other damage to report. They inspected the shell closely. Eventually, Len took the thing up on deck and considered his options.

Smoke drifted across the boat, causing his eyes and nostrils to sting. Huge concentrations of thick black smoke continued to mass overhead, melding with the monsoon clouds. He could hear explosions, so close and methodical in rhythm that he guessed they were demolition charges. Or mortars. On the dock, go-downs lay smouldering. As he stared, a squad of men in uniform sent a truck straight off the wharf and into the sea, where it floated briefly before sinking rapidly into the oily waters. As Len watched, another truck rolled into view, pushed by another squad of men, who sent this one straight into the sea too. The shell began to weigh more heavily in his hands.

He thought of Lofty, then held the shell over the side of the boat and let it go. He watched as it splashed into the oily waters and disappeared.

★ ★ ★

Late on the afternoon of the following day, 10 February, Richard Pool arrived down on the docks in his car, bringing news of the next mission. Len watched as Johnny Bull and Malcolm Henderson were joined in the wardroom of 310 by Ernest Christmas and Victor Clark commanding 311, Kiwi Colin McMillan commanding HDML1062 and Angus Rose commanding HDML1063. When Johnny and Malcolm Henderson mustered their crew together, Johnny didn’t waste his words.

‘Can you hear me?’

His crew nodded in unison.

‘Right. We’re out of here. We have twenty-four hours. We’re sailing for Java, and I want everything shipshape. There will be extra equipment and stores, and some “special” passengers.’

He paused for effect.

‘And we will be among the last to leave.’

He raised his eyebrows, and offered a long stare. Everybody understood the risk it implied. They would be evacuating, but at the last moment. Would they get out the door before it closed?

Dismissed, the men set to once more, most stripped to their shorts, preparing the vessel. They were not quick, but deliberate. Careful. Tim joined Len, and together they disassembled the gun and checked the barrel lining for any effects of the recent action. With heads down and arses up, as the Chief Petty Officer on the Alynbank used to say, they absorbed little of what was going on around them. Only when they were sent ashore to help load drums of fuel was Len able to take stock of the bigger picture. Crew and soldiers from a transport company beavered away for most of the second day, unloading some Browning large-calibre machine guns being dispatched by the Air Force, as well as a number of anonymous crates, and storing them below decks. They were challenged to maintain the boat’s trim as it settled lower in the water.

Thick smoke drifted across the docks. The go-downs smouldered, and new fires added to the mass, which rose and billowed to form the huge, lumpen cloud covering virtually the whole island, and threatening to black out the sun. Across the city, buildings lay collapsed and whole blocks lay in ruins. Japanese bombers continued to attack against desultory anti-aircraft defence, and their fighter pilots continued to get under the defences to strafe the streets and terrorise the citizens.

Len knew the bombing was getting close when the local anti-aircraft batteries started up, and closer still when they went to rapid fire. Now, as they rolled petrol drums alongside the vessels to refuel them, the men began to hear the sound of mortars from somewhere inside the line between Bukit Timah Road and the Reservoir, a few miles away. For this reason, once refuelled, the launches moved back to moorings. The sailors could see the stress on the waterfront was reaching intolerable proportions, and the evacuation of civilians was putting enormous pressure on the authorities.

Their own evacuation was planned for the 12th, but it was cancelled at the last minute, and the men on the launches stood down. In the late afternoon, some, including Len, were granted restricted shore leave.

With much back-slapping, the chosen few took to the dinghies, paddled to the docks and clambered up the ladders, keen to make the Mayfair and back within their curfew. Others chose not to leave the boat at all. This time Johnno was among the ones who stayed on board.

‘It’s safer,’ he said. ‘Who knows how much shit you’re going to find.’

The destruction around the docks was near total, and the loss in human life wickedly random. Minutes before their arrival, a bomb had burst not far from the dockyard gates. Burning vehicles blocked their path. The sailors had to wait before they were able to walk around the area; the bomb had landed squarely on the road, which had been crammed with refugees, cutting a swathe through a mass of people. The still-smoking crater presented a wretched scene, with its perimeter of torn bodies, bloodied parts and wailing kin. Len wondered at Johnno’s prescience. They hurried away and hitched a ride with a British soldier driving an empty Bedford.

‘I’ve been two days ferrying everybody down to the bloody wharves,’ the soldier told them. ‘Now I’m ferrying the sailors in the opposite direction. I mean, what’s the point? Tell me then, what’s the bloody point?’

Jock sat beside the driver. He turned and looked him in the eye, and said, ‘Have you ever heard of a beautiful hotel called the Mayfair? A place filled with dusky Eurasian beauties, and where they still know the meaning of cold – as in beer?’

‘No, mate, I haven’t, but if you’re trawling for my interest you have it.’ The soldier crashed a gear. ‘I’ve been driving since yesterday morning, and I’ve had a gutsful. They won’t even notice if I’m AWOL for an hour or two.’

And so he drove them to the Mayfair. Groups of soldiers, apparently leaderless, stood around corners or alleys, bloodied and dirty and showing clear signs of recent combat. They watched the sailors pass with ill-concealed hostility.

They were only a block or two away when they were stopped by air-raid wardens at North Bridge Road. There was a cordon, and, for a while, they all thought the Mayfair had been bombed. They left the truck and, with Jock leading the way, threaded their way along the side of the street, stepping over hose pipes, smouldering timbers and masonry, to reach the door of the hotel. Here they found that it wasn’t the Mayfair that had taken a hit; it was the Fire Station nearby: the building now blazed furiously, the fire being controlled by its own crew.

They bought Lionel, their driver, beers and played the chilli prawn trick on him, watching while his face coloured puce and he gasped for air. To their delight, even after they had given him a beer laced with more chilli sauce, he sat there mopping the sweat from his brow and pretended it wasn’t hot. So they shouted him another beer – without chilli this time.

After only a few hours, the time came to leave. The hostesses knew this was the end, and lined up in a genuine display of gratitude, for the respect the sailors had shown them. Many were crying, the Chinese women especially, distressed at the prospect of Japanese occupation. Jock was crying too; like many Scotsman, when he drank too much he became maudlin. A couple of comrades grasped his arms and guided him away, past the fire. Their new mate Lionel showed his own gratitude, offering to take everybody back to where the dinghies were tied up.

‘Come on, lads. I’m ferrying service personnel. To the wharves. From the wharves. What bloody difference does it make? Hop aboard.’

He drove the sailors back as close to the docks as he could and gave them the thumbs-up as they disappeared off into the flickering gloom. They climbed down the ladder to their dinghies, hidden in shadows under the wharf, and paddled out towards the boats.

Keppel Harbour and the length of the Singapore shoreline was crowded with flotsam and blanketed in a heavy oil slick. The orange glow of fires bouncing off the clouds continued to provide an extraordinary display. The two craft began to bump their way through a cluster of boxes and bales floating on the surface, just as an explosion from a burning liquor warehouse nearby lit up the scene.

‘Whoa!’ shouted Tim, loud enough for the men in the other dinghy to hear too, and the two groups stopped paddling. He held up a bundle that had been floating among the bales.

‘Money!’ was all he said. Wordlessly, every man dropped his eyes to the water and scooped up a bundle.

‘Fuck me!’ Jock had recovered his composure.

‘You can say that again,’ Tim retorted with genuine intent.

They looked closely at the bundles in the available light, and couldn’t believe their eyes. It was money – Straits dollars, in large quantities.

‘Here we go again.’

They hauled wads into each dinghy, filling their pockets and stuffing the rest into their shirts. When they reached their vessel, they hurried below and hid their prize. Len filled a pillowslip with his share, and then placed it at the back of his hanging locker. Then he found a place on deck, lay himself down and, not for the first time, abandoned himself to an exhausted sleep. In his dreams, he, Tim and the others, along with the ladies from the Mayfair, were engaged in a mad dervish-like dance among bloodied victims and their mourners, in a swirling maelstrom along blasted roadways that swept them all up until they disappeared into a cloud of infinite blackness.

★ ★ ★

The day after their planned departure, Len and the launch crews were still lying idle at the docks, as were crew on dozens of other small craft, waiting for the order to sail. Their frustration was palpable. Everything and everyone was ready, so there was little activity and not much communication between the sailors.

‘This is pissing me off,’ grumbled Tim in an empty moment. I wish we were out of here.’

‘Be careful what you wish for,’ replied Len, mindful, as were they all, of the risks.

‘Yeah, well, I’m not sure I want to hang around here much longer,’ said Jackie.

As if to justify Jackie, a salvo of mortar rounds burst nearby and rifle fire rattled through the adjacent streets. It was the stillness before the storm.

The three Kiwis on ML310 sat under netting, trying to deal with the space between frustration and anticipation, oblivious to the fact that elsewhere even the most senior officers were struggling with similar conflicting emotions.

At his desk in Fort Canning, Rear Admiral Spooner sat staring at the calendar, thinking. Friday, 13 February 1942. He had upheld the best traditions of the service. Now, he was about to deliver himself to be evacuated. Previously he had written a short, poignant letter to Vice-Admiral Peter Cazelet, a personal friend, in case he did not succeed.

My Dear Cazelet,

Singapore will probably be captured tonight or tomorrow. The story of ineptitude, bad generalship etc. is drawing to a close. I am sending with this 3 trunks, (tin) and one short (?) box of mine and my wife’s. Please take to Batavia and turn over to Collins or to my wife who is staying with Lady Sanson at Bandoeng. My wife left here in Scout last night. I am getting away all the Sailors and Officers I can in the various patrol boats, and intend to follow myself in an ML at the last, and not be captured.

The present state of affairs was started by the AIF who just turned tail, became a rabble and let the Japs walk in unopposed.

My Marines have been cut up. The young N Officers in MLs and Fairmiles have been splendid.

A certain number of Officers and sailors may come with you. As they come in from various boats and jobs all over the island am sorting them out as boat crews and getting surplus away – I do not intend to be taken prisoner if I can help it.

You must go by midnight – all good luck and tell my wife I’ll follow soon.

Yours,

etc

Now it was his turn.

He called for his driver. He then sought out Percival – finding him in his office. Conway Pulford, the Air Force Commander and a friend of Percival, was also there, making his farewells.

‘Goodbye, Percival. I suppose you and I will be blamed for this, but God knows we’ve done our best with what we’ve been given,’ Spooner said.

Percival, condemned to conduct the surrender and become a prisoner of the Japanese, came out from behind his desk. The men shook hands briefly.

‘Good luck,’ Percival said perfunctorily, and returned to the task of stuffing papers into a sack.

The men parted company. The Admiral found his driver, called his Aide-de-Camp, and together they made for Keppel Harbour.

★ ★ ★

When the Admiral arrived at the docks the sun had long settled. He found that public order had all but collapsed, and the previously ordered evacuation was facing breakdown. A panicked mob that had gathered outside the dock gates had to be forcibly parted by military police, to allow vital military traffic onto the docks. When the Admiral’s car arrived at the wharf and could go no further, the Admiral invited his driver, New Zealander Petty Officer Arthur Bale, to accompany him, along with Ian Stonor, a Lieutenant of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders serving as his Aide-de-Camp, and together the three men walked through the cordon of MPs. Nonplussed to find nobody on board 310, they made their way below. It was about 11 p.m.

The crew boarded shortly after, having attended a briefing together with the crews of the other launches on board ML311. Richard Pool introduced Johnny Bull to the Admiral as ‘Wavy Navy’, but the Admiral seemed not to be influenced by Pool’s subtle inflection. ‘I know you’ll do a fine job, Commander,’ he said, indicating his deference to Bull as CO.

Several vehicles arrived on the docks, and the chosen evacuees began to assemble. Jock Brough called out names from the list given him by Pool, and men began to file on board their appointed vessel. They included Johnny’s immediate superior, Naval Commander Pendarvis Frampton; Wing Commander George Atkins RAFVR, accompanied by a group of aircraft artificers; and three sergeants of the Royal Engineers. Others refused to board at all when they saw the heavily loaded vessels, preferring to take their chances of survival on land rather than at sea. So the available space was offered to some Royal Marines helping maintain order on the dockside. They eagerly accepted.

Johnny worked simply and with assurance, in spite of the presence of the Admiral and ranking officers of other services. His crew also worked with practised ease, against the background of chaos.

The sailors were occupied instructing the soldiers on stowage and safety when Len saw an army Bedford with a closed canopy push its way through the crowd and stop along the wharf a short distance from the Fairmiles. An officer dismounted from the passenger side of the cab, and from the rear four armed soldiers dismounted, hauling a struggling figure with them. Len watched out of the corner of his eye as the officer stood in front of the man and spoke to him. Whatever passed between them seemed to agitate the prisoner dramatically.

‘What the hell are you men doing?’ came a shout from the Coxswain. ‘We haven’t got all bloody night! Get on with it!’

The sailors got on with it, but Len was distracted when a shot rang out, and he was dumbfounded to turn and see a body tumble into the harbour. One of the soldiers lowered a pistol.

‘For fuck’s sake, Lenny. Pull your finger out!’

Len raised his hand in acknowledgement, but looked back to where the shot had come from, hardly able to believe his eyes; the body was now floating among the debris in the water. The five men from the Bedford – a senior Air Force officer and four military police – walked towards the ML and Len, now thoroughly confused, watched them climb aboard. He saw the Admiral and his Aide-de-Camp emerge on the bridge deck above and call out a greeting.

‘Ah, Pulford. You made it. Let the Air Vice Marshall through, gentlemen.’

Shortly after there was a lull in the activity, and Len, Tim and Jackie met up with Jack Kindred.

‘Did you see what I saw?’ Len asked the others.

‘No, mate. What are you talking about?’ Tim replied. But before there was time for Len to explain, Johnny Bull and Ernest Christmas commanding 311 called the four into conversation.

‘One of Ernie’s crew is AWOL,’ Johnny Bull said to them. ‘I’m not sure why, but he’s short of a gunner for his three-pounder. Which one of you is going to go and help Jack?’

He was clearly addressing the gunners. Tim looked at Len, while Len looked down at the ground and shook his head.

‘I’ll go,’ said Tim. ‘Len’ll be all right.’ He winked at his mate.

Len was still shaking his head when Johnny said, ‘OK, grab your stuff. We have to leave now, if we are going at all.’

Jack punched Tim on the arm and said, ‘Good on you, mate. I’ll go and sort out a locker for you.’

Tim turned to Len and thrust out his hand. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here, eh? I can feel these bastards breathing down my neck.’

It was a very apt analogy. They could feel the heat from the blazing refinery and storage tanks on Pulau Brani.

‘Good luck, mate.’

‘Yeah, good luck,’ said Len. Then the words of Haami Parata sprang to his mind, and he spoke them aloud – ‘Kia kaha.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Tim.

‘Stand strong! That’s what it means. My Māori mate told me that in combat your ancestors stand behind you. It’s quite empowering when you think about it.’

Len shook his friend’s hand and added, ‘Just make sure that the people behind you are your ancestors.’

When Tim shouldered his kit and stepped across onto the other vessel, Len felt a familiar dread grab at his entrails. His diaphragm contracted involuntarily. He thought he had learned to subjugate the wehi. Why it gripped him now he did not know. Perhaps it was the fog of war – its uncertainty – brought home by seeing British soldiers shooting their own men. He said nothing about it.

There wasn’t much else to say, but Tim said it.

‘It’s been fun so far.’

‘You think so? Look after yourself, mate.’

‘Good on you, Len. I’ll be seeing you.’

‘Not if I see you first.’

7

Bangka

At 2315 on 13 February 1942, ML310 left Keppel Harbour. Singapore was in its death throes and ML310 was the last to join the stream of small boats heading south to safety. The HDMLs went before them, having smaller loads, and 311 had already disappeared in the darkness. Leaving the shore did not immediately deliver them from threat, as the water was filled with obstructions and debris, and they made their way slowly at first, crew standing by with gaffs to push away anything damaging. From the Outer Roads, the view back to the city was almost impressive; it was blazing from one side to the other, with explosions adding pyrotechnics to the spectacle, and massive volumes of smoke pouring from the oil tanks on Pulau Brani.

Johnny called for a little more speed. The ML rose slightly in the water as it pushed cautiously through the murk, but it immediately began to swerve away to starboard, in spite of the efforts of the helmsman. They were forced to stop, and discovered that the port steering wire had parted: the same wire that had been damaged during the Straits raid. Happily, repairs took only about ten minutes before they were able to start again, but shortly after they suffered a second misfortune. 310 ran aground. They must have drifted while repairing the steering cable; in the poor visibility their position was uncertain, and they had grounded on Takong Reef. The position now was serious.

Everybody sat quietly while damage assessment was carried out; the army boys cradled their weapons and tried to avoid impeding the sailors. Two RN ratings went over the side to inspect the propeller and steering gear, while Richard Pool took to the dinghy to inspect the hull. While Pool was feeling his way along the vessel’s chine beneath the waterline, someone else’s wake arrived: it lifted the Fairmile briefly, before it settled back again on the reef. Len wasn’t the only one who heard Pool’s anguished cry, and he squirmed when Pool clambered back on board clutching his bruised, bloody, swollen fingers, feeling the pain of his own previous finger injuries.

Apart from the people on board, the Brownings and a quantity of alcoholic spirits acquired from an army unit were weighing the ML down. The sailors had their own priorities, legitimised perhaps by the belief that the liquor could be traded to their advantage. All this ensured that the launch stuck fast. On an ebb tide, she began to heel to one side. Things were starting to look desperate. The ship’s radio was unserviceable, and could not be repaired in the time available before the evacuation. All Johnny and Malcolm Henderson could do was study the tables, and they saw that their only chance was to wait until the tide turned.

So they waited quietly, forty-one men in all, including a Rear Admiral and an Air Vice Marshall, like fish out of water.

At 0630, the boat lifted free on the rising tide, and the sailors sprang into action. No damage to the hull or the engines was evident, so Johnny ordered a course through the Durian Strait, and ML310 headed south at a steady twelve knots: all they could manage under their load.

★ ★ ★

Everybody was sailing south-east. Several thousand men and women were fleeing Singapore at the last possible moment in sixty little ships, heading by the most direct route down the coast of Sumatra towards Java. To reach the presumed safe haven of Batavia, they would have to survive being hunted through uncertain waters and dangerous straits by a ruthless enemy who was already engorged on victory, and who knew no mercy.

Nobody quite knew where they were. Len and everybody else could see they themselves were behind the mass of small vessels. But nobody knew the Japanese were ahead of them, concentrating their own fleet to the south-east, preparing to invade Sumatra and Java and prevent the Allies from responding with a naval force of their own. Thus the vessels of the evacuation fleet were sailing into a trap.

★ ★ ★

Enjoying Johnny’s confidence now as an able seaman, Len provided back-up to Jock on the helm, standing on watch and manning one of the light machine guns on the bridge wing, which is where he stood now. He ran his hands over the LMG, locking and unlocking the ammunition belt, and opening and closing the breech. It was a more responsive weapon than the for’ard gun, which was slow and cumbersome to manoeuvre by comparison. Satisfied that the LMG was still well oiled and operating smoothly, he wiped everything down with his cloth.

Richard Pool was also on ML310’s bridge. Len watched him look at his right hand and try not to display any reaction to the intense pain he was clearly feeling. He blew on the fingers and held his hand high.

The Admiral, also on the bridge, called to him, ‘Show me your hand, Richard.’

Inspecting Pool’s swollen hand, he blew through his lips and said, ‘That looks nasty. We had better get it looked at.’

Of all the men on board, Charlie the cook was the only one with anything that might be called first-aid skills, and they were modest. He improvised a sling of sorts, and wrapped Pool’s hand in a piece of wet cloth, a crude means of cooling the inflamed flesh.

Johnny stood front and centre, feet apart, hanging onto the bridge rail. Len sat at his gun, relishing the breeze, cupping a cigarette and squinting into the distance. When he looked back, he could see the growing daylight beginning to neutralise the distant glow of the burning city. The laden ML sped towards the Durian Straits, threading a course through the islands of the Bulang archipelago, and travelled some thirty miles, before the full light of day obliged Johnny to find an anchorage. It was the morning of 14 February.

The launch slowed and turned inshore at the southern end of Sugi Bawah Island, dropping anchor off Pengu. To their surprise and muted joy, ML311 was already at anchor in the bay. Soon both boats were concealed beneath camouflage of netting and palm fronds. Nobody had any idea where the rest of the launch flotilla might be. In fact, Colin McMillan and HDML1062 were anchored just out of sight in the bay next door. The three launches lay undetected throughout the day. Shortly after anchoring they saw a flight of twenty-seven enemy bombers heading south, and during the day they heard other Japanese aircraft searching for targets, as well as the distant sounds of combat.

Len lay sweltering beneath the netting, watching the other Fairmile through half closed eyes for any movement, but no such signs were forthcoming. He imagined that Tim and Jack Kindred would be doing what he was doing: lying doggo and longing for cool air.

He was woken by the murmur of conversation coming from the hatch near where he lay. It wasn’t in his nature to eavesdrop, but the subject seized his attention immediately. The Air Vice Marshall, Conway Pulford, was talking to Ernest Spooner. His vehemence was striking.

‘Patrick Heenan got what he deserved,’ he was saying. ‘He was a flash Harry, lots of money and plenty of women. He’d been a problem in every unit he ever served in. We had our suspicions. Finding his radio removed all doubt. He must have been warning the Japs when our aircraft were refuelling, at their most vulnerable.’

The Admiral said something about a trial, and again the Air Vice Marshall replied, angrily this time.

‘He was lucky he got a trial at all, the traitorous bastard! He was responsible for the destruction of most of my planes. Not to mention the loss of my pilots.’

The Admiral said something that Len could not quite hear.

‘It was the only option. Neither Percival nor I were inclined to leave him behind alive. The Japs would have made a hero of him.’

‘I’m glad it wasn’t me, Con. Damned difficult situation.’

The conversation settled. Len opened his eyes. So that was it. He had witnessed an execution! He looked up to see Johnny sitting against a bulkhead opposite. When he caught Len’s glance, he put his finger to his lips. Len looked at him blankly, pondering the implications of what he had heard. The absence of air defence had been the vital factor to the whole campaign. Without it, Prince of Wales and Repulse had been sunk and British naval capacity neutralised. Without it, the land campaign and Singapore itself were exposed to remorseless attrition from the air. At this moment, their greatest threat came from the air. The Air Force had been lost in the first two days of the battle, destroyed on the ground, and now both he and Johnny knew why. Someone had betrayed it. It was knowledge that weighed heavily on them for a long time after.

★ ★ ★

At dusk, both MLs shed their netting, weighed anchor and headed off into the night once more, this time navigating the Berhala Straits. By the following morning, Sunday, 15 February, 310 was anchored alone, some distance off the Sumatran coast among the Tuju Islands, also known as the Seven Island group, hidden in solitude in the lee of the largest island, Katjangan.

Unknown to those on 310, ML311 was now south-west of them, approaching the straits between Bangka Island and Sumatra where the mouth of the Moesi River meets the sea. Ernest Christmas, knowing the straits would be especially dangerous, hoped to clear them as quickly as possible. He asked Victor Clark to join him on the bridge.

Victor Clark RN, like Richard Pool a survivor of the Repulse, had commanded HDML1063 with distinction during the evacuation at Batu Pahat and now travelled as a passenger on 311. Ernest Christmas sought an opinion from his senior. ‘Do we risk it? Shall we push on?’

Victor Clark didn’t need elaboration of the question, and his answer was immediate. ‘Yes, we do. It’s all or nothing.’ He paused for a moment, in case a greater clarity arrived. It didn’t. ‘We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t. The only thing we can do is go for broke and hope we come out the other side.’

Christmas replied laconically, ‘I was hoping you had a better idea.’

The die was cast. He ordered his crew to action stations.

Tim and Jack Kindred had been sitting smoking on the aft deck in the early light of dawn. When the call to action stations came, they flicked their fags over the side and went forward.

‘You and I haven’t done this for a while, mate,’ Tim said to Jack. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

‘Ha, ha! You cheeky bastard. Wait and see.’

★ ★ ★

They didn’t have to wait long, and were only about a mile from the vessel before they saw it, when it presented the unmistakable profile of a Japanese destroyer. Ernest Christmas immediately relinquished command to his superior, who ordered full speed ahead.

Tim and Jack now had their eyes fixed on the enemy. As Jack depressed his gun, both he and Tim saw a flash from the destroyer’s forward guns, and from the flash point burst a delicate puff of smoke. Hardly had the two focussed on this than they were engulfed in a pulverising flash of searing heat and ear-shattering noise. The first salvo produced a direct hit on the little boat.

One shell struck below the bridge, shattering the bridge housing and killing the helmsman instantly. The second struck the forecastle. As the Fairmile sped on, the smoke cleared, revealing the gun, knocked off its mountings, and the headless corpse of Jack Kindred slumped in his gunner’s seat. Of Tim there was no sign.

With the three-pounder gone, 311 had only the Lewis guns for defence, and one of those was out of action. Ernest Christmas dragged the dead Coxswain out of the way and took the helm, while Victor Clark skilfully ordered a zigzag course to try and evade the enemy’s salvoes, but they were fighting a losing battle. The enemy destroyer continued to close, and every shot began to tell. Shrapnel flayed the decks, killing and wounding dozens. All around the little vessel the water boiled under the shower of steel. Then the petrol tanks were hit, and fire began to blaze amidships.

Below decks, the engine-room crew were trapped in a special hell. Another direct hit had struck the engine room itself, the blast destroying the engine casing and putting the port engine out of commission. In the chaos of hissing steam, choking smoke and hot oil spray, two of the engine-room personnel lay dead. The other was seriously wounded, but stuck to his task and managed to keep the remaining engine running. Another salvo hit, and the Fairmile lost speed and began to circle. Ernest Christmas reported the steering out of control.

Victor Clark took stock. His left wrist was broken. Two-thirds of the men on board lay dead or dying. The decks were awash with blood; soldiers and ratings lay groaning among the limbless and the disembowelled. The destroyer stood off. From about a thousand yards, it trained two forward and a single aft turret on the stricken Fairmile, and continued to bring down a constant rain of fire. The short rounds chewed away at what was left of the boat, inflicting more casualties and further damage to the already wounded, jolting the boat with the shock of each direct hit. Clark gave the order to abandon ship, optimistic that they were close enough to shore to enable some to escape. Some of the wounded were lashed to timbers, in the hope this would prevent them from drowning, before being pushed off into the water. Those capable of taking to the water themselves hoped perhaps that they might be picked up, but the Japanese made no effort to rescue any survivors. As Clark swam towards the Sumatran shore, he looked back at the blazing vessel billowing black smoke skyward, small arms rounds exploding in the heat and shooting out of the inferno. Barely ten minutes had passed since the first shot had been fired. Between the Fairmile’s crew and the fifty-five army personnel on board, there had been more than seventy people on ML311. As many as twenty took to the water, but not all of these men survived. Among the dead and dying floated the lifeless body of Ernest Christmas.

On the opposite side of the straits, in full view of the action, were a number of boats from the fleeing flotilla captured by the Japanese, lying in the bay at Muntok. People on Mata Hari watched in horror at the merciless destruction of ML311, counting as many as fourteen six-shot salvoes striking the launch. Then they watched as the Fairmile burned to the waterline, its tattered white ensign engulfed by flames the last thing visible before the boat disappeared beneath the waters of the Bangka Strait.

★ ★ ★

Len and the others on 310 were oblivious to the fate of 311. ML310 lay anchored among the Tuju Islands, intending to stay under nets until nightfall before continuing its passage. In spite of concerns about the Japanese, Johnny gave permission for a party to go ashore and bathe, then sat with Admiral Spooner and the other senior offices discussing the journey ahead.

When the bathing party returned to the vessel, he called the crew together on the deck behind the fo’c’sle.

‘OK, gentlemen, we have a change of plan.’

The men stirred. What did ‘change of plan’ mean?

‘Lieutenant Pool’s hand requires medical attention,’ Johnny told them. ‘The Admiral wants us to make for the Dutch settlement at Muntok and get it looked at.’

He let his crew absorb the news.

‘In daylight?’ came the question from Jock Brough, the Coxswain, but Johnny ignored it.

‘Square the ship for passage. We weigh anchor immediately.’

There was a muted hubbub before Jock took charge and they dispersed.

‘Come on you lot, look lively,’ Jock told them. ‘You heard.’

In quick time the nets were stripped and stowed and the engines started. The crew were disconcerted.

‘Damned fool idea, this,’ opined Jackie. ‘Moving in bloody daylight.’

As if to emphasise the risk, they heard the low drone of a distant aircraft moving slowly across their southern horizon.

Below deck, Johnny Bull and his Executive Officer took stock.

‘This is stupid,’ said Henderson.

Johnny looked at the Australian and shook his head slowly. He had nothing to add. Together they climbed up onto the bridge, and Johnny gave the order to weigh anchor.

★ ★ ★

ML310 tracked south from the Tuju group at about fifteen knots, heading for the little town of Muntok, which lay on the inner shore of Bangka Island. They hadn’t sailed far when they intercepted a small koleh carrying two local fishermen, who warned of the presence of warships in the area, but they carried on, the Admiral unconcerned. The blue skies and low cumulus of early morning had by now transformed into the haze that is so typical of tropical latitudes, fusing the vista of sea and sky into a subtle palette of blue-grey. The bridge was crowded. Alongside Johnny and Jock at the wheel stood Rear Admiral Spooner, Commander Frampton, the Air Vice Marshall and Wing Commander Atkins, their eyes glued to their binoculars. Richard Pool was below, resting his injured hand. Len and Jackie stood at their guns. All searched the horizon keenly for any signs of danger. Soon, they noticed wisps of grey smoke rising lazily from the water. A large oil slick enveloped the Fairmile, and Johnny called for half speed.

The slick emanated from a small oil tanker, burnt out and pockmarked with shell holes, drifting semi-submerged. Around it floated a number of bodies, and not even the oil could conceal the fact that the dead had all been victims of gunfire; they had clearly been shot while in the water. A crew member scooped up a Naval cap from the water with a gaff and brought it to the bridge. Inside was a name, and that of the vessel, HMS Aquarius. As they pushed through some of the debris, there was a shout. One of the RN ratings was pointing to starboard, to something in the water. Johnny immediately ordered the engines stopped. Jock spun the wheel to allow the launch to glide alongside what at first appeared to be some sort of hatch cover. It turned out to be a Carley float saturated in oil with some black and lumpen shapes on it, from which three pairs of eyes stared back at the sailors gathering on the rail. One of the men on the raft weakly raised an arm to the Fairmile’s crew, who now scrambled to haul the stricken three aboard. Once this was accomplished, Johnny immediately ordered full speed.

He spoke quietly to his Coxswain. ‘Prepare the crew for action.’

Len and Jackie opened the ammunition lockers and went through their routine. The heat weighed heavily on them both, and Len felt the sweat run down his face and neck, saturating his shorts. He thought about his helmet and decided to leave it in its pouch, glad for the breeze as the Fairmile sped on for Muntok. The resourceful Ian Stonor took it upon himself to marshal his soldiers into defensive positions around the vessel, where they lay prone with their weapons ready.

Within a matter of minutes the narrow geography of the straits began to reveal itself in the haze. Everyone was silent, the air filled with the roar of the engines. Len and Jackie both searched for any signs of the enemy. While Len automatically began to train his gun slowly across the horizon, more things that spoke ominously of the fate of other boats began to capture their attention. First it was an oil slick, spread wide across their passage, then flotsam and other detritus.

It was Malcolm Henderson who sighted the other vessels first.

‘Starboard thirty, sir. I can see another vessel. No, four ships! In line heading nor-nor-west. Straight towards us!’

They all swung their attention onto Henderson’s discovery, easily 5000 yards ahead and a similar distance to the west.

‘Jesus,’ Len heard himself say.

They could now easily see the masts and funnels of several large vessels. There appeared to be two light cruisers and destroyer escorts, none of which could immediately be identified. Johnny’s instinctive reaction was to avoid contact at all costs. He immediately gave the order to change course.

‘Port one-seventy, full ahead both,’ he ordered, and the helmsman spun the wheel hard to port, to bring the vessel around until it was heading back towards the Tuju Islands at speed.

‘Aren’t you being a bit premature?’ asked Pulford, perfunctorily. ‘They could be ours.’

‘I’m not willing to get that close,’ replied Johnny. ‘If I’m wrong we’re done for: they can easily out-gun us.’

As he spoke, one of the destroyers detached from the group, turning to expose its profile to the Fairmile, and then began to close. Even from a distance the flag of the Rising Sun was unmistakable. The Admiral spoke. ‘So, what do you propose, Commander?’

‘I’m heading back to the islands, sir. If we make it, we may get away with it.’

They raced onwards, closing rapidly on the islands and possible safety. But they had not counted on the seaplane.

‘Aircraft! Starboard ninety degrees.’

The binoculars all swung to starboard, to where five enemy seaplanes could be seen heading in line towards the Sumatran coast. For a moment it seemed they would not be noticed, until one of the planes peeled off and headed straight for the Fairmile. They were still about four miles from the Islands. The approaching aircraft levelled off, in preparation for attack, flying low and straight towards them. Len reached for his cloth. Except for those confined in the engine room, all the men on the Fairmile turned their eyes to the plane. The soldiers braced for the unexpected. The sailors braced for the inevitable, when the helm would be flung over hard to avoid the bombs.

Len and Jackie prepared to shoot, waiting patiently as the plane came straight towards them on its unwavering course. They held their fire until they saw the attacker’s wing armaments light up and bullets begin to stitch a course towards them, at which point they returned the favour in kind. The Bofors pumped several shells, and both men fired steadily at the fast-approaching aircraft until it had closed on the vessel and then suddenly gained height to release its bombs. As it passed overhead, it was the rear gunners’ turn to loose off full belts. Bits flew off the aircraft’s wing, but miraculously it flew on without faltering. The bombs fell wide by twenty yards: close enough to drench those on the aft deck. The soldiers cheered as the plane turned away. The Air Vice Marshall stood next to Len, gripping the rail with both hands, bristling, his eyes riveted on the departing aircraft.

‘Give me a shot at the bastards, will you?’

He turned expectantly to Len, who looked back at Johnny, confused. Johnny nodded, so Len stood back and indicated to the Air Vice Marshall that the weapon was his. Pulford grabbed the gun with both hands, swung himself in behind it and made to take aim at the plane. Then he hesitated a moment, nonplussed, and squinted into the distance. ‘Where is it, damn it? Where is it?’

Pulford’s vision was not the best; he had lost sight of the escaping plane as it hastened to catch up with its companions. Again five dots were diminishing in the haze.

‘Damn it,’ Pulford raged, surrendering the gun back to Len. ‘I’d love to have a decent shot at them. Just one shot!’

‘I know what you mean, sir,’ offered Len, generously. ‘Give them a dose of their own medicine.’

‘You do a better job of it than me, I’m afraid.’

A bleary-eyed Richard Pool now appeared on the bridge, holding his bruised and broken hand, having been roused by the sudden noise and change of direction.

‘Put your helmet on, Lieutenant,’ Pulford told him. ‘We are under attack.’

Pool was about to say something to him, but was cut short by a cry from Henderson, who had seen a puff of smoke emanating from the pursuing destroyer.

‘They’re firing at us, sir!’

He had no sooner said so than the shell whistled over their heads and created a massive explosion of water in front of them. Pool put his helmet on.

It occurred to Len that this was the first time he was facing his enemy on level terms. He had never met the enemy on the water. In the North Sea and off Malaya, the enemy had been almost invisible. He felt least vulnerable to attack from the air; he exercised an inalienable belief in his own skill as a gunner. Now he felt truly exposed, facing enemy gunners who had trained as he had trained, and in ships that were more powerful than his own. He felt the wehi once more though now he had control, so, while his stomach drained, his heart began to beat with renewed vitality; with wana. He remembered his conversations with Haami Parata, and called on his uncles to fill the empty space inside him.

The only option any small ship had in these circumstances was evasion, its size and speed affording that advantage in certain conditions. This was exactly what they had trained for, and exactly what Johnny Bull was counting on as he headed for the scattering of islands with the Fairmile’s twenty-four cylinders hammering away at top revs. Along both sides of the launch, sailors and soldiers alike crouched down involuntarily, as if to reduce the wind resistance and increase their speed.

There was a pall of fresh black smoke rising from the water behind them.

‘I wonder where 311 is?’

The Admiral’s question was rhetorical. They were all heading in the same direction and all facing the same odds.

The word spread among the crew. Where was 311? Where were their comrades?

‘311 must have copped it.’

‘Poor bastards.’

Silence. Len was absorbed entirely in the thought of what the destruction of 311 meant for Tim and Jack.

‘I hope some of them got away.’

‘Got away? Where?’

‘Fuck me. Here they come.’

‘Watch out, they’re firing at us!’

The destroyer, now behind the Fairmile and closing, fired three times at the little boat. The first shot was in line with its target but overshot, the second fell off the starboard bow and the third fell off the port quarter. The Japanese gunners were good, and they were getting their range easily given the distance. At this moment their quarry reached the Seven Islands, and Johnny hurled the boat among landforms in an effort to put one between themselves and the enemy.

‘Malcolm, get rid of the code books,’ he shouted.

The First Officer gathered the sensitive material – signal and code books. Len grabbed a steel ammunition box along with a clip of live shells from the three-pounder. Out of sight of the enemy, he and Malcolm Henderson placed the sensitive material in the box, which was tossed over the side, and sank.

‘There appears to be depth enough for us,’ Johnny said. ‘If we can manoeuvre behind the islands they may not be so keen to follow. I think we’ll make it.’

‘You’d better be right,’ muttered Richard Pool hopefully, gripping the bridge handrail with both hands, his crushed fingers suddenly of no concern.

As the vessel entered the narrow channel between Talang and Tjibia, Johnny called for half speed and then slow ahead, and the Fairmile nosed its way carefully behind the shelter of Tjibia. There seemed little likelihood of the destroyer being able to follow, so they turned into the tide and stopped engines, watching apprehensively for any sign of the enemy.

Ian Stonor spoke. ‘Can we get the men off the boat, Commander? We don’t want to be shot at like sitting ducks.’

‘They will have to swim for it,’ Johnny replied. ‘We haven’t time to ferry them to shore. With any luck the jungle will hide you, while my men and I hold off the Japanese.’

‘How are you going to hold off a destroyer?’ Pool’s voice was tinged with incredulity. Johnny ignored him, gesturing to the group of senior staff.

‘You should go ashore with Ian, sir. It’s your only chance.’

The Admiral turned to Ian Stonor.

‘What do you think, Ian?’

The Lieutenant answered without hesitation. ‘We have to give it a go, sir.’

‘Then do it.’ The Admiral looked at Johnny. ‘If we put the boat in closer we may have a chance of making the safety of the jungle. Quickly, now. If we get away with this, we can regroup later.’

Johnny gave the order, and the Fairmile crept slowly into the shallows, which appeared to stretch about a hundred yards from shore, until suddenly there was an excruciating sound, all too familiar. The boat rose a little, then sank again with a grinding crunch. They had grounded!

Another modest swell moved the boat, again with a gentle grinding noise, but did not lift it. In an ebbing tide and in the shallow waters, with each gentle movement of the waves the heavy Fairmile settled ever more permanently on the reef.

Johnny gave immediate instructions. ‘Drop the pick, now,’ he shouted, and the two for’ard ratings rushed to comply. ‘Ian, start getting your men ashore. Coxswain, lighten the boat! Jettison anything heavy. We might be able to float her off.’

‘We’re done for now,’ said Pool.

At Ian Stonor’s command, his men now began lowering themselves over the side into water that reached up to their armpits. Some of the smaller men needed assistance before their feet touched the bottom, but one by one they all began wading towards the shore. Johnny addressed the Admiral.

‘What about you, sir? We can’t allow them to capture you or the Air Vice Marshal. If you can make it into the jungle we might hide the fact of your existence from the enemy too. It’s your only chance.’

His crew stood motionless on the deck, listening to the interaction. Len kept scanning the skyline behind them, for any sign of the Japanese closing on them.

‘If they find you it will be the end for all of us,’ Johnny added.

‘But Commander,’ retorted the Admiral, ‘they will search the island anyway.’

‘Not if we stay on board, sir. They needn’t know you or any of the others were ever here.’

Spooner dropped his head briefly and sighed. Then he looked up at his fellow officers.

‘Commander Bull is right. Pen, you and George better come with the Air Vice-Marshal and me. We’ll just have to take our chances. Don’t leave anything behind that might give away our presence.’

Len felt a pang of sympathy for Admiral Spooner, and he thought he saw this on Johnny’s face too. Spooner seemed to have reached the end of his resources, but Len didn’t think Johnny had. Johnny was looking down at his crew, who looked back at him expectantly, and he gave short sharp instructions. Ian Stonor took command of the soldiers, who grabbed their weapons and began lowering themselves into the water.

George Atkins hesitated. ‘I’ll stay,’ he said. ‘Together we’ll be a bit of a bag.’

‘I’m staying too.’ It was Richard Pool.

The Admiral and the Air Vice Marshall bustled below, collected their things, and took to the water, helped over the side and into the small dinghy. The sailors watched while they made their way to shore with the help of Ian Stonor and a couple of the Marines, dragged the dinghy into the trees and swept the sand with palm fronds to conceal their tracks.

Charlie emerged from the galley carrying some mugs and a steaming pot of tea. Len had always thought it amusing that whenever the going got tough Charlie would show up with tea. So there they were, waiting, all drinking tea, when there was a shout. ‘Look out! There they are!’

All four Japanese vessels came into view, steaming east, away from the islands. For a brief moment, the men on board the Fairmile thought they might be reprieved, until there was another cry, and another destroyer was sighted steaming directly towards them. It hove to only about a mile distant, not daring to venture into the channel that had saved then trapped the Fairmile. Then they saw the forward turret of the destroyer train on the little boat.

‘Hurry up and get yourselves ashore. All of you. Now!’

Johnny’s command was punctuated by the sound of firing. A shell whistled over the top of them and landed on the reef in front. Johnny looked towards the shore. Len followed his gaze. There was no sign of the Admiral or Ian Stonor’s group. The destroyer fired again, and a second shell landed nearby.

‘But sir,’ Jock remonstrated, ‘surely we’re going to stay on board too?’

‘No,’ said Bull. ‘You will be safer onshore. Mr Henderson and I will stay and face the music.’

Unlike the soldiers, the sailors gave every appearance of reluctance to abandon their boat and their Commander. Johnny gave them confidence, and in no time at all they were overboard and heading for the beach.

All except Len.

Len quickly went below, thinking he would grab some of his personal belongings, but when he opened his locker he didn’t have a clue what to grab. His pillowslip, full of the banknotes they had fished out of Singapore’s harbour, hung in front of him. Without thinking, he grabbed it, then raced back up onto the deck. Jackie Hayward was already halfway to shore, along with the remaining ratings, including Johnno, holding his small cardboard case overhead. Len looked up at the bridge, where the four remaining officers stood stoically, waiting. Johnny looked at him, and for a brief moment Len thought he would ask to stay. For his own sake. The thought that Tim and Jack might be dead compelled him to raise his game. In light of their probable sacrifice, he didn’t wish to be found wanting.

‘Get cracking. We’ll catch up on shore,’ Johnny said, offering Len a grim smile. ‘Here, take this for me.’ He handed Len a canvas bag.

Len took the bag and climbed over the ship’s rail. He lowered himself into the water and began wading towards the shore. Two more salvoes arrived, but landed short. In front of him the rest of the crew had already reached the beach.

8

Marooned

On shore, Len and the other sailors stood along the beach while the others stayed concealed in the trees. Ian Stonor gave instructions for the protection of the senior officers, then left, with a couple of men, to look for a view over the sea and reef from where he might watch events on the Fairmile.

Len watched discreetly from the shore, using binoculars he found along with a compass and some local charts in Johnny’s bag. He could see the men on board, Richard Pool, George Atkins, Malcolm Henderson and Johnny Bull – two Britons, an Australian and a New Zealander – watching and waiting while the Japanese destroyer hove to and lowered a boat filled with armed men, which made straight for the stricken launch. All the while the destroyer’s guns remained trained on the Fairmile. Len’s apprehension rose when he saw the sailors leap on board and force the officers up against the superstructure with their weapons. He could hear the shouting. One man raised his rifle and menaced the captives, until one of two officers appeared to intervene. Immediately, the sailors ceased their yelling and took a pace back, still holding their rifles at the ready. The aggressor among them continued to intimidate the prisoners with his bayonet. Len watched as the enemy officer stopped in front of Johnny and some sort of conversation ensued. He wished he could hear what was going on.

The Japanese officer looked to the shore. On the edge of the beach, he could see the forlorn group of seamen standing motionless, staring back towards the boat. The officer appeared to give another brief command because several more sailors then clambered aboard the Fairmile and disappeared below. The enemy officer strolled to the bow, and Len’s spirits sagged further as the noise of the Japanese ransacking the boat carried across the water. He continued to watch for several minutes, not daring to blink. The Japanese officer spoke to Johnny again then stood back, whereupon one of his sailors handed his rifle to another and quickly conducted a body search of each of the prisoners in turn. While Len watched, the sailor with the bayonet continued to weave his weapon threateningly back and forth at the group. Two Japanese entered the wheelhouse, while others inspected the ship’s armaments. Len took some satisfaction from having personally thrown the breechblock of the gun overboard, on instructions from Johnny.

Jock squatted down beside Len, so he handed over the binoculars.

The Coxswain muttered insults under his breath, while Len squinted in the bright light to see what was happening. None of the sailors on the beach said a word as they watched the event unfold.

The Japanese in charge gazed out to sea, taking no notice of the activity of his subordinates while his captives stood by helplessly. Len and the others watched and listened for several minutes to the noises of destruction, before the sailors began to come back on deck again. The Lieutenant appeared to give an instruction, and immediately those sailors standing over the captives sprang into action, poking and prodding their prisoners towards the stern.

‘Oh fuck. I don’t like the look of this,’ said Jock, looking away from the scene.

Len took the binoculars back. He saw George Atkins, conspicuously grey-haired and a little slow in responding to the sailors’ prods, receive a blow to the kidneys from a rifle butt and sink to his knees. Len wanted to respond himself; to do something other than watch helplessly. The fear that he had first felt now turned to a furious anger; his grip on the glasses intensified.

The unfortunate officers were herded to the rail, before an enemy clearly succumbing to a feverish aggression. It seemed like their end might be near. Len could hear the soldiers behind him beginning to react to the situation. He had forgotten they were there and that they too were watching.

On board, Johnny himself stared at impending death and felt nothing. He had often wondered whether repeated experience of close action was somehow immunising; whether being under fire as closely as they had been might, incrementally, inure a person from fear of death. He had heard of the death wish, but that implied a desire to abandon life, and he was damn sure he wasn’t ready for that. No. What he felt as he looked at the excited faces of his enemy was a grace, an inner peace, a freedom from extreme emotion. It surprised him. It surprised him further when his mind began to wander. He closed his eyes, hoping that the shadow of his hat obscured the fact; relishing the warmth of the sun. He saw the view from his house, out over the waters of Cockle Bay and the Tāmaki estuary to the islands of Motukorea and Rangitoto. He saw his wife Cecily, and heard her voice calling him to tea. At least they had had wonderfully happy times together.

The men on shore, and Len in particular, could not have imagined the paradox. They themselves were a long way from inner peace, struggling to suppress the overwhelming desire to fire at the Japanese from the shore and save their officers from execution. The thing that held them back was the certain knowledge that the retaliation from the destroyer would be swift and indefensible. And they still had a duty to protect the Admiral and the other senior officers.

Across the water floated a sharp command, followed by much shouting between the Japanese. Now it was Jock’s turn to raise the binoculars, and for Len to watch, as the enemy sailors moved to their launch and began to board it.

‘Christ, what are they up to now?’ said Len.

‘I don’t bloody believe this,’ Jock replied.

They watched as the Japanese officer said something to Johnny, then bowed stiffly from the waist. The men on the beach stood stunned, uncertain. They saw George Atkins give a bow of sorts, while Johnny saluted. The Japanese officer returned the salute, spun around and joined his men in their tender to return to the destroyer. None of the men on the beach could believe the unexpected change of fortune. They watched the destroyer take the launch back on board, weigh anchor and reverse gently before turning into the channel and slowly moving away. It rounded the larger island and disappeared from sight.

On the Fairmile, the men were totally drained of emotion; almost drained of energy. Their shoulders sagged, and they stared about themselves in bewilderment.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Pool whispered.

The Wing Commander just shook his head, uncomprehending.

Johnny expressed his own deep sigh of relief and laid his hand on his First Officer’s shoulder.

‘Come on, mate. Let’s go and find the others.’

★ ★ ★

Johnny and the other officers joined those already ashore. Len and Jackie listened keenly, as did they all, while Johnny explained to the Admiral and the assembly exactly what happened. The Japanese mid-shipman had spoken English. He had politely explained to Johnny that their vessel did not have the capacity to accept prisoners. Someone would return shortly to take them all prisoner, he said. Until then, they were condemned to remain marooned on an island with no obvious means of escape. In spite of this, everybody was elated by this outcome.

They were further surprised when Ian Stonor emerged from the jungle shortly after, accompanied by several Dutch soldiers. Everybody now gathered to hear their story.

Several were local Sumatran, dressed in sarongs and khaki shirts, and one Javanese, a non-commissioned officer in the military uniform of KNIL, the Dutch East Indies Army. Two of them stepped forward now, and the Admiral began to question them.

‘We are a forward observation post. He is my wireless operator,’ the officer said, pointing to the Javanese.

‘You have a radio?’

‘No. We smashed the radio when the destroyer came.’

Admiral Spooner let his exasperation show, hissing through his teeth, and after a brief discussion, insisted on inspecting the radio hut for himself.

When he returned, he convened a leadership meeting to discuss their situation and devise some sort of action plan. By now darkness was closing in, and soldiers and sailors alike lay or sat in groups in quiet discussion. If there was any despondency, it was not evident. They had salvaged food, water and some comforts from the Fairmile already. Charlie was incensed to learn that the Japanese had smashed his woks with their hammers and scattered his rice supply over the galley floor. He muttered to himself in Chinese, with a cadence that clearly expressed deep malevolence, even as he prepared a meal of tinned food over the embers of a wood fire. The aroma made the men realise they hadn’t eaten since before dawn.

Ernest Spooner sat on a squab salvaged from the boat’s wardroom. Next to him were Richard Pool and Johnny Bull; the two other Navy men, Frampton and Malcolm Henderson; the two Air Force men, Pulford and Atkins; and Ian Stonor, who sat with his back against a coconut palm, idly tossing a green coconut from one hand to the other. The sailors had been called to observe the meeting, and they sat with the Dutch soldiers on the periphery, smoking and watching.

Spooner called the ‘meeting’ to order.

‘All right,’ he began. There didn’t seem to be any point in standing on formality. The respect was implicit. The instinct for survival was shared by them all, irrespective of rank. ‘What have we got to work with?’

Johnny looked around the group, and then took the initiative. He and his motor mechanic had already been back out to the boat to inspect the damage and the possibility of repair.

‘The boat doesn’t look to be in a bad way, sir,’ he said, ‘and the prospects for repair look fair. There’s no radio – it hasn’t operated since Singapore – and electrical and wireless fittings, some instruments and parts of the main engines have been smashed with hammers. The electrical and fuel systems on both engines were undamaged, but the oil pipes are smashed. Petty Officer Johncock has a better understanding of the damage and how to repair it.’ He nodded towards Johnno.

‘The Commander is right, sir,’ Johnno said to the Rear Admiral. ‘They attacked the blocks but don’t seem to have done much damage there. Dented the manifolds. The pipes are bad. And it’s not just the oil pumps but the cooling system as well. With a bit of effort, though, we think we can replace the seals and braise the piping back into shape. They had a go at the lathes, but strangely enough they left the welding equipment alone. Maybe the fumes put them off.’

The Admiral looked at the Coxswain.

‘Any problem from your end, Leading Seaman?’

‘Nae, sir.’ Jock’s brogue made the Admiral smile.

‘It’s just a matter of time and the boys are raring to go,’ Jock added.

All eyes were now on the Admiral.

‘Right then. Johnny, you organise things on the boat. Richard, you support him from shore, and Ian, you take care of the shore party. Set up a watch and have your men establish some sort of order here. We need shelter. See if you can sort out the huts.’ There were several abandoned fishermen’s huts clustered near the shore. ‘Petty Officer Johncock, how much time do you need?’

This was the burning question.

‘Four? Six hours, sir, and we should have it working, one way or another. I can get started right away.’

Len watched for the officers’ reactions. Johnno’s confidence seemed to buoy the Admiral, but if Richard Pool’s furrowed brow was an indication, he was sceptical, but he said nothing. In spite of the problems in front of them, when a brief period of rest was offered and everybody dispersed, there was an air of optimism evident in the quiet conversations going on between the men.

★ ★ ★

The four military policemen had put some distance between themselves and the rest of the men on board, and now too sat apart. Being apart came with the job. Len also sat alone. Ever since the action in the straits began, he had known instinctively that Tim and Jack Kindred were victims of the Japanese. There was the smoke, the oil slicks and the shattered flotsam, and they were still tending to the wounds of the men from the Aquarius. During the action he hadn’t had the time to give this any thought, but now he was on the island, his vision narrowed and his sight darkened as the walls of his world closed in on him once more, pressed by hard-edged thoughts, of friendship stolen, of loss, of anger.

Tim had had so much he did not have. Resilience. Humour. Ava. It occurred to Len that all three factors were related. He, Len, had resilience, and he was learning humour, but the obvious and unqualified love Tim and Ava had for each other was something of which he had no experience. And there was only one Ava. Len wasn’t jealous, though deep within himself he might acknowledge he had become a victim to Ava’s charms – even fallen in love a little with her soft, deep-throated laugh. But he could never betray his friend’s trust by allowing himself to go beyond that. No, he admired Tim and Ava, for their certainty. If he was guilty of anything, it was envy. He envied them their symmetry and the ease with which they came together. When Tim joked, Ava laughed. When Ava cautioned, Tim checked. When they walked, she fitted neatly under his arm.

How could he shield her from the truth? How could he avoid being the one to bring her the pain? The more he thought about it, the more angry he became, and he sat alone on the beach in the dark and ached for vengeance – or resolution; he wasn’t sure which. It did not come. The only thing that soothed him was the gentle rush of sound as each small wave reared up on the shore and swept along the sand.

★ ★ ★

The sailors were at work on the boat before the sun came up. Len and Jackie had volunteered to work the engine room pumps, not a place either would otherwise choose to be as it was so oppressive. They worked at lowering the water level while Johnno and his engine-room crew had stripped away the damaged pipes and were now trying to repair or replace them. Through some miracle it seemed the Japanese hadn’t tried to drain the petrol tanks or spoil the fuel. Perhaps they had plans of their own for ML310. Twice Johnno’s crew turned over the engines, but they refused to fire, causing a powerful odour of petrol to fill the engine room instead. With genuine trepidation, and only after the air had been allowed to clear, they tried a third time; incredibly, the engines fired, choked, then fired again, before finally settling into an erratic rhythm. The stokers allowed themselves a modest cheer, while Johnno watched the instruments carefully. Within a few minutes a couple of the pipes began to leak badly under pressure, and then the rhythm began to falter. Johnno banged at the temperature gauges with his knuckles, but the engines began to clatter, falter, then surge. He whacked the gauges once more, then reached out and shut the engines off. He spat on an engine block, leaving a wad of saliva that sizzled briefly before evaporating, and shook his head. ‘No pressure. They’re overheating. They won’t last five minutes.’

The silence was deafening; the consequences of what Johnno had said unequivocal. ML310 was stuck on the reef and would be going nowhere. Furthermore, water continued to leak into the engine room, suggesting that the seals around the propeller shafts had also been damaged.

The men had hardly noticed the arrival of the new day. It was 16 February.

★ ★ ★

On shore, work started at dawn. Some tidied the huts and took stock of the food and other resources, while a small group was sent off in search of anything else on the island that might help their situation. They worked away for several hours before their industry was interrupted by the noise of a plane, which prompted everybody to abandon their work and hide. A lone Japanese aircraft descended to look more closely at the Fairmile, sweeping over the top of the launch, still stuck fast on the coral. Then the plane came around and levelled out, on a course aiming straight for the boat. It lofted over the top of them and dropped a bomb. A cheer arose when the bomb overshot the launch and landed in the sea, forty yards wide. The aircraft circled again and came back a second time, and the cheering stopped when its machine guns began to stitch the sea with a line of bullets that headed straight for the boat and shredded bits off the superstructure. Then the plane turned away and resumed its course. Soldiers and sailors emerged from their respective boltholes. After a brief discussion, it was decided to rest during the day and work by night.

The crew returned to the boat after dark, accompanied by a couple of military engineers, and began to strip it of anything useful. Some, including Len, were actually in the water, attempting to recover objects jettisoned before the Japanese boarding. They worked away in darkness, feeling their way around the sea floor. On board, they worked by torchlight. In spite of their predicament, the mood was reasonably buoyant; the men chatted away while they worked, and the talk turned to rugby, a matter of fierce competition between England and New Zealand. A beefy sergeant of engineers suggested that, on the rugby field, a good big man would beat a good little man any day of the week.

‘Bollocks,’ said Jackie, who was about half the Englishman’s size. ‘Size doesn’t matter. It’s tactics, mate. Go fast and go early. Then you’ll see what happens.’

‘That may be, lad, but first you have to get past us.’

Jackie looked at his challenger.

‘Ha!’ he retorted. ‘You big bastards are easy. Blokes like you can’t hack the pace. By half-time you’re buggered and we run rings around you. Go fast and go early. Works every time.’

‘I don’t think so,’ the sergeant replied.

‘It’s been working for us,’ said Jackie.

‘It’s been working for the Japanese,’ offered Len.

His words carried a profound and unpleasant truth, and from the silence that followed it was clear his point hadn’t been lost. And he didn’t notice that Johnny had overheard the conversation.

★ ★ ★

Early the next morning, 17 February, the officers, including the Javanese Commandant, met together. Johnny reported his depressing assessment of the Fairmile’s condition.

Shortly after, Johnny quietly called Jock, Len and Johnno into conversation with Richard Pool. They sat under the trees out of the sun.

‘Listen carefully, boys. There’s been a development. We’ve found a boat; a native prahu. It’s in a bad way, but there’s little choice.’

He had their interest.

‘I’ve persuaded the Admiral to let us try and fix it, make it seaworthy and attempt a rescue, and I need your help.’

They looked at each other.

‘It’s flat bottomed, hard chined, with a sail. The timber’s not bad, but the caulking is some sort of bark, and it needs replacing.’

Len saw Pool shake his head. What was he doing there? Len wondered. Johnny must have seen it too.

‘It’s all we’ve got,’ Johnny said. ‘With a small group, moving quickly? I think we can do it.’

‘Let’s have a look at it, then,’ said Jock.

They found the boat in undergrowth at the far end of the beach. It was as Johnny described it.

‘Will it stay afloat?’ asked Pool.

‘They sail well,’ offered Len, irked by Pool’s pessimism.

‘Is Mr Pool coming with us?’ asked Jock pointedly.

‘Yes,’ answered Johnny. ‘The Admiral has recommended Lieutenant Pool for his small boat experience.’

Apart from Pool, the Admiral had left selection of the rest of the crew for this task to Johnny, who did so without hesitation. Johnno’s maturity and experience, Jock’s seamanship, and probably Len’s small boat skills made the three obvious choices, or so it seemed to Len.

‘We’re going to repair the prahu on Katjangan,’ Johnny said. ‘The Japs are paying us too much attention here. Lieutenant Pool and I will plan the route from there. We’ll need to prepare for a journey of ten or more days. Hopefully we can make Batavia in less time than that, but there is the weather to consider, not to mention avoiding the Japanese.’ He gestured around the little group. ‘So, we have to work well and not waste time. I reckon on forty-eight hours.’

Jock spoke up. ‘And how long do you think the voyage will take us?’

‘Batavia? I can’t be sure. Hopefully we get there before the Japs do.’

Jock smiled at his Commander’s familiarity, while Richard Pool squirmed at it.

‘It’s at least 350 miles,’ Johnny continued. ‘And ten days at the most, weather permitting.’

They pondered the statistics. This was going to be no mean feat, even without the threat of marauding Japanese. Thirty-five miles a day was a realistic goal, but they could not anticipate the weather, and rowing or sailing day after day for ten days would tax their stamina and endurance. But, except perhaps for Richard Pool with his injured hand, they were all fit and healthy. The three ratings watched Johnny keenly. They were almost smiling. Len wondered – was it the excitement, or the absurdity of the venture?

Johnny looked at his crew. ‘I’m offering you men this because if we fail, I know it won’t be for want of trying.’

They all heard the challenge embedded in Johnny’s statement. They were being invited to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire; things would likely get worse before they got better. But they knew that, without any attempt at escape, they would become prisoners. Or perish. Len saw it as a clear choice. He saw no honour in sitting there, helpless. His uncles didn’t die sitting on their arses. They needed to succeed – he needed to succeed – for his crew mates, for his mother and for Tim.

Okea ururoatia.

Fight like a shark.

He offered his hand to Johnny, who shook it with conviction. Jock looked nonplussed to have been beaten off the mark, and thrust his own hand forward. Johnno followed, saying, ‘We’ve a better chance of success than most, sir.’

‘I don’t doubt that for a moment, sailor. Let’s get to it.’

As the news passed through the wider group, there were no dissenting voices, only quiet congratulations accompanied by deep-felt wishes for success.

★ ★ ★

Throughout the day the sailors prepared for the work ahead, assembling tools, materials and rations of food and water for those who were to undertake the rescue mission. On several occasions enemy aircraft flew by, and observers on the hill reported heavy maritime traffic, troop transports and escorts, heading south-east. Johnny and his crew assessed the state of the prahu, noting its rotting caulking and any of its planking that had deteriorated. The old Arab-style lugsail had long since degraded. They had calico to make a new sail, and all the ropes could be replaced. They also had the tools to replace rotten timbers and apply suitable caulking. By dusk the ML’s dinghy was filled with everything necessary, and the prahu had been patched sufficiently to make the short voyage to Katjangan: about three miles.

It was intended that Johnny and the rescue party would continue on from Katjangan without returning to Tjibia. Accordingly, Admiral Spooner invited all the men to write a personal letter to loved ones. These were placed in an oilskin folder and put into the small case that Johnno used to carry his personal items.

The moment of departure arrived. Those who were to remain, thirty-nine men in all, formed a line, and the five who formed the rescue party passed along it shaking hands. Len found it difficult to look these men in the eye.

‘Good luck, mate.’

‘Good luck, laddie.’

‘God bless you boys, and good luck.’

‘Good on you, mate.’

Finally, Len faced Jackie Hayward. ‘I’ll see you, Lenny,’ he said.

Len focussed.

‘Not if I see you first, Jackie.’

Having pulled the boat down to the edge of the water, Johnny joined Richard Pool and the other three in the prahu, and they pushed off from the beach. Two men in the Fairmile’s dinghy were to accompany them to Katjangan. One had been an upholsterer before the war, and the other a carpenter, and it was intended that these men would assist the others in restoring the prahu and then return to Tjibia once the rescue party had embarked.

They didn’t look back. By the time they had come to terms with the characteristics of the prahu and reached Katjangan, it was dark. The wind and tide had been against them in the crossing, and it had taken longer than they’d anticipated. The tension of recent events meant that fatigue had hit them faster than they’d expected. They dragged the boats up the sand and withdrew into the trees, deciding to rest early and start work at first light. They tried to settle into the sand as best they could, ignoring the still oppressive heat and humidity of the night and the mosquitoes, which had discovered a new and rich source of sustenance. Against the sound of buzzing and swatting most lapsed into fitful sleep.

★ ★ ★

A light breeze had risen; it shushed gently through the palm leaves overhead. Len again found sleep beyond him: his mind was too busy. He was preoccupied with the idea that Tim and Jack Kindred were gone. Why was it that he was still alive? Or was he? What were the chances of sailing a decrepit boat across several hundred miles of open waters safely? Would they avoid the enemy? Could they even make the prahu seaworthy? His mind buzzed as he fought these demons, and a familiar chant began to crowd his thinking.

Ka mate! Ka mate!

Ka ora! Ka ora!

A wave washed up: swish.

Ka mate! Ka mate!

Ka ora! Ka ora!

Swish.

The breeze had all but abated, but now the jungle croaked, whirred, chirruped and occasionally squealed instead. It was the waves collapsing metronomically on the sand that eventually lulled Len to sleep.

★ ★ ★

Before he knew it, he was being roused by Johnno. After a breakfast of tea and a biscuit, they started work, as the eastern horizon began to glow. It was the morning of 18 February. They had dragged the prahu out of the water and into the shadows of the palms. Helped by the two men who would remain behind, they set about their work.

The fourteen-foot prahu would offer little room and no comfort for its five passengers. The vessel’s hull was strengthened by lengths of timber stretching across it from one gunwale to the other. It had a flat bottom, about five feet across, and sides about three feet high, double-ended, with a narrow transom where the steering oar was attached to a rusting gudgeon with a piece of wire.

There was a modest toolkit, enough for the job, including rope and grease to more substantially caulk the seams and erect the very basic rigging that the prahu needed. Johnno worked on the hull with the carpenter, replacing rotten timber, stepping a new mast and plugging or hammering heavily greased rope into the gaps. Len and Jock beavered away organising ropes and binding rowlocks for the oars and fitting the rigging, while Pool and the upholsterer set about stitching together a decent sail. The short voyage of the previous day had already proven that the seams of the modest vessel leaked badly, and needed decent work if they were to stay watertight.

Their fear of the Japanese returning was not misplaced. More than once during the day they watched across the water as stray fighters strafed the stranded Fairmile and attacked it with bombs, and observed with satisfaction that the ML emerged apparently unscathed. Perhaps they were to be lucky after all.

Johnny had drawn enough rations for ten days. There were twenty green coconuts, and meat, milk and biscuits in tins. Each man was allowed a small bag of personal possessions, while Johnny also carried a white ensign and a bottle of liquor. There were three revolvers and ammunition, and the letters, wrapped in waterproof canvas. When the prahu was fully loaded with these, there was only about eighteen inches from the waterline to the top of the gunwale. There were oars – one to steer with and two for rowing – and two paddles, fashioned from materials scavenged from the ML.

At dusk the two who were to remain behind took to the water to return to Tjibia. With their final farewell, the prahu crew’s last connection with the main body was terminated. The five men treated themselves to a hot meal of boiled rice and cocoa and turned in early. The repairs to the prahu had progressed well, and Johnny intended they should embark at the earliest opportunity the next day.

★ ★ ★

On the early morning of the 19th, the five men were in the final stages of preparation when Len happened to look across the water towards Tjibia, and saw the dinghy making its way steadily back towards them. He pointed it out to Johnny. ‘Looks like a visit from home, gentlemen.’

It wasn’t long before they were joined by Malcolm Henderson, and two ratings.

‘The Admiral wants to see you,’ Henderson told them.

‘Really? Any idea why? We were just about to set off,’ Johnny said.

Henderson looked away. ‘No idea, sorry. Something to do with the Commandant, I think.’

‘The Commandant?’ Richard Pool repeated. ‘What’s he got to do with things?’

‘We’d better go and find out,’ Johnny said.

Fully prepared and careful to leave nothing telltale behind them, the group left Katjangan and rowed back to Tjibia. Len and Jock took the oars and rowed, while Johnno sat in the front. Richard Pool was offered the steering oar. He still seemed to favour his hand, but if the others nurtured any doubts about his inclusion, they did not show it. They did not hoist the sail for fear of making themselves conspicuous, and the prahu seemed to be in good order during the brief voyage.

They beached with help from their comrades. As Johnny swung his leg over the side to disembark, Ernest Spooner eased his way to the front of the group of men who had met them. The Admiral took Johnny’s elbow and steered him away from the crowd. Richard Pool made as if to accompany them, but the Admiral spoke to him. ‘No, Richard. I have something I want to address with Lieutenant Bull. A change of plan.’

‘A change of plan? May I ask, what change?’

‘Not now, Lieutenant. Not here.’

Chastened, Pool was forced to watch while they walked away. Len cast an eye towards the two men, who were soon locked in conversation.

★ ★ ★

When Johnny came back, most of his crew were in small groups, still involved in sorting through material that might be useful to their survival. A group of soldiers were putting the finishing touches to the latrines being dug at the far end of the beach. Len and Jock were both standing by the prahu with Johnno, discussing the little boat’s sailing tendencies.

They could smell wood smoke as Charlie the cook stirred embers and began preparation for a meal. Johnny called to Len, Jock and Johnno and to Malcolm Henderson. The men huddled around Johnny while he quietly spelled out his dilemma.

‘There’s been a change of plans. The Dutch commander has persuaded the Admiral that we’d be better off if he and one of his men accompanied us on the voyage. And I have to say, it makes sense to me too. They know the region; they know the boat; they know the language. If we get into difficulties, they’ll be a great help.’

The realisation of what Johnny was saying began to dawn on his men. To Len it arrived as a profound sense not of despair, but of frustration. If he was desperate for anything, it was for action, and this was a backward step. He felt sympathy for Johnny, who was being asked to decide which of his sailors to drop. Not least, Johnny had to be seen to be fair-minded. Morale was paramount if they were going to succeed. There was a heavy silence now, as the three sailors came to terms with the fact that two of them were about to be left behind.

Johnny held out his hand. The sailors saw that their Commander was holding three twigs.

They were to draw straws.

So it wasn’t to be choice, but chance.

Escape, or otherwise.

Life, or death, perhaps.

‘Johnno, you first.’

Johnno reached out and drew a straw, followed by Jock, and then Len. When they opened their hands to reveal which of them would stay with the prahu, the die was cast. Jock had won. Johnno and Len would stay behind.

Elsewhere, Admiral Spooner was apprising Richard Pool of the new situation. Pool was struggling with its implications.

‘This will mean rearranging the crew, sir.’

‘Yes, it will, Richard.’ The Admiral looked at his Sub-Lieutenant.

Pool himself knew that the loss of two sailors would expose his own frailty. He could hardly bear to close his right hand, the fingers hurt so much, and every time his heart beat, the fingers throbbed painfully in unison. He had relied so much on using his thumb to compensate, he thought he had sprained it. In short, he knew his continued presence in the rescue group would be an impediment to its success. It took him only a moment before he realised that here might be a way to avoid contempt and gain redemption. He hesitated only for a moment. ‘Admiral, I should like to stand down from the mission. I’m not sure I’m fit for the task after all, sir.’

Strangely, the relief he felt in saying so was immediate. He no longer had to pretend.

‘Thank you, Richard. Given the state of your hand, I do think it wiser for you to give up your place to someone more able-bodied.’

For the second time, Admiral Spooner sought out Johnny to explain a change.

★ ★ ★

Johnny did not think Pool fit for purpose either, and in turn he called his original choices together. Len had been sitting on the beach alone, no longer frustrated but despondent, coming to terms with remaining on the island. When Johnny explained that Pool had dropped out, and that he and Johnno were to compete again for selection, Len shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, at the mercy of factors that were now beyond his control.

9

Hope

At sunset on 20 February the escape party finally left Tjibia. A spontaneous gathering occurred as the reconfigured group dragged the heavily laden prahu back into the water, and as they began to clamber on board, there were words of encouragement and shouts from those remaining. The Admiral called for three cheers. At the rear sat Johnny on the steering oar, and his Coxswain sat beside him. In the front of the boat were the two locals, Nicolaas, the Commandant, and Dawi, his radio operator. In the middle sat Len, taking first turn at the oars.

It was Johnno who had given him his reprieve, saying to Johnny, ‘You’ll need the young lads on this journey, sir. They deserve the chance.’ He had taken the change of circumstances on the chin, surrendering his little brown case filled with the letters to Len for safekeeping. He was the last to push them off, standing up to his waist in the water and shouting his encouragement to the rescue party until he couldn’t be heard any more and Len was left listening to nothing but the sound of his own effort on the oars and the creak of the rowlocks. Here he was, the last of the Reservists who had left Auckland, God knows how long ago, rowing off to God knows where, while Johnno and the others stayed behind on the island, left to their indefinable fate.

Len considered his own fate as indefinable too, until he looked over his shoulder at the grey mass that was Bangka Island vanishing into the night, and decided to make it his first goal. After Bangka, there would be other milestones to measure progress. The headwind dropped away and the tide also shifted, enough that the prahu was able to break free of the Seven Islands’ captive grip.

★ ★ ★

They began eagerly at first, before slowly settling into a steady rhythm. Len rowed easily, mechanically dipping his blade and drawing it effortlessly through the water. He remembered something Haami Parata had told him; something they had discussed in relation to the image of the waka that decorated the hall in Mount Eden. He slipped into a pattern: one, two, three, four strokes, then he held the oars above the water and rested. One, two, three, four strokes, and a rest again. Between strokes he remembered the chant Haami had invoked – Kōkiri hī – and began to include it in his rhythm: One, two, three, four – kōkiri hī!

They all soon appreciated his economy of effort and the small but regular respite the pattern provided, whereby the prahu lost nothing of its speed. Johnny ordained that the rowing would be done by all three of them, rotating in fifteen-minute intervals, thus providing a half hour of rest for each of them. In this way they settled into something of a routine.

From the Tuju group to Bangka was thirty nautical miles. They had intended to reach the island and conceal themselves before daylight, but by the time the sun was up they were well short of their destination. Thankfully, the conditions were stable, and a useful breeze arrived, which helped their progress through the morning. They did not hoist their sail, because they did not want to expose themselves to undue attention. Instead, they rode a gentle following sea, and put their back into their work.

Johnny sat with the compass in one hand and the sweep oar in the other, watching the drift of the prahu and correcting the way they were pointing. He watched his two crewmen, allowing himself a small smile of satisfaction. Jock, the experienced all-weather sailor, who exuded confidence on the water in any situation, having already been in most of them. Len’s uncanny ability on the water and must-win attitude. He regarded their skills as invaluable assets.

They rowed on – one, two, three, four strokes, and rest. One, two, three, four …

Johnny began to consider the other two on board, sitting apparently unconcerned in the front. There was something vaguely disquieting about the Dutch Commandant; the man aroused a suspicion in Johnny he could not rationalise. He had the utmost difficulty in assessing Nicolaas’s allegiance. In this suddenly changing world, to whom did his loyalties lie? Nicolaas was an agent of the Dutch government, but not Dutch. Part Javanese, he might easily be hostile to their success. He pondered this possibility, until Nicolaas noticed his gaze and obliged him to turn away.

★ ★ ★

Acutely mindful of the Japanese presence around Muntok, Johnny had plotted a course away from the Strait and down the east coast of the island. There were several small towns along that coast that required them to take extra precautions.

All elements of their uniform were concealed. Their hats and tunics were wrapped in oilskins and stowed under the floorboards. Also hidden under the floorboards was their food – tinned bully beef, tinned sardines and what proved to be their most valuable source of energy: tins of sweetened condensed milk. Along with a Naval ensign and a bottle of whisky, Johnny had surreptitiously hidden three revolvers there too, when he was confident the two non-British were not watching. In plain view was their supply of water, in two large rattan-wrapped demijohns salvaged from the Fairmile and lashed to the boat, as well as fresh green coconuts from the island. They had devised clothing – sarongs made from sheeting fabric stripped from the Fairmile – that they wore over their shorts to give them the appearance of being natives. They also wore t-shirts – Chinese-made undergarments that the locals typically wore, and which provided vital protection from the sun. Johnny and Jock wore coolie hats that men on the Fairmile had souvenired from Singapore, while Len and the two locals wore the turban-like headdresses that were typical of fishermen. They didn’t want to appear anything but normal – preferably native – should they attract any interest. They were already brown from their time in the tropics and, from a distance, would give a very good impression of local fishermen out in search of a catch. And of course, they had Nicolaas and Dawi on board, who could speak the language should they be challenged. If they saw anything resembling an enemy warship, they intended to hide themselves under the floorboards. These preparations and Johnny’s briefing before the departure had given them every reason for confidence. They also had the compass and a chart.

The breeze abated by the middle of the day, and the heat of the afternoon was suffocating, but they kept rowing, encouraged by the sight of the island getting closer. A shape they saw on the horizon turned out to be a hulk down by the bow, a small merchant vessel surrounded by wreckage, its superstructure blackened by fire. There was no obvious sign of life; Johnny ensured they kept their distance from the vessel, and they rowed on. The rescue of Admiral Spooner and the others was their paramount goal. A couple of hours later they heard a dull thump, and a column of smoke rose into the sky from near where the derelict vessel had been. The sailors all recognised the noise of a torpedo striking a ship.

‘Faster, boys,’ said Jock.

They raised the tempo of their stroke, and by the time the setting sun began to reach the horizon, they could make out the island’s landscape in detail.

★ ★ ★

It was almost dark when they brought the prahu to shore, nudging it quietly onto a narrow beach of broken coral overhung by coconut palms. They had paddled almost non-stop for twenty-four hours. Now it was time to be alert to a different threat: discovery by hostile locals or even enemy land forces. But they had observed few lights on the coast, and there was no large settlement that they were aware of until Pangkal Pinang.

The five men unwound from the prahu and stretched, shared a tin of bully beef and opened a fresh coconut. They sat or squatted along the sand in silence, gazing out into the night in the direction they had just come from.

‘What do you think?’ asked Johnny. ‘It’s cooler at night.’

The wisdom of his thinking was irrefutable. They all knew that the end of the voyage, if they got that far, involved sailing some distance over open sea, where there would be no shelter from the elements, and they would need all their energy and skills for that task.

Paddling by night made perfect sense. And so they buried the tin and the coconut remains, dragged the prahu back into deeper water and carried on. The sea was flat calm and there was no point in hoisting their sail, but in the relative cool of the night air and uplifted by a star-filled sky, they rowed steadily, taking their turn to rest. Len curled his small frame up on the floorboards as best he could and snatched sleep in fits and starts.

It had been impossible to determine exactly when they passed Pangkal Pinang, since it was blacked out, but by the time the sun had come up on the second full day of their voyage, 22 February, they guessed that they had successfully circumnavigated the town and travelled safely beyond it. They had paddled non-stop for thirty-six hours before Johnny decided on rest, more secure in the knowledge that the population along the north coast of the island was relatively sparse and believing the enemy was likely as not concentrated elsewhere. Dragging the prahu ashore once more, they breakfasted on biscuits that were damp from the conditions but improved when drizzled with condensed milk. Yearning for rest, they settled down to sleep but continued to maintain their vigilance nevertheless, each man taking watch an hour and a half at a time.

Late in the afternoon Johnny roused his crew and, after another snack of sardines and coconut, they pressed on. This time they paddled far out to sea before turning east and rounding the northern-most point of the island, Grasak. Now they were able to adjust their course south-east and set a course closer to the shore. While it remained light they could watch the coastline pass them by, and feel buoyed by their progress. The rhythm of rowing came easily. While at first their muscles had ached with soreness, that had begun to disappear. The two natives chatted idly, and Jock raised a smile from Johnny when he began to sing ‘Loch Lomond’, emphasising each word that coincided with his stroke:

You’ll take the high road,

And I’ll take the low road,

And I’ll get to Scotland a’fore ye …

Nicolaas and Dawi stopped talking and listened with amusement, and then began to mimic the words themselves. Johnny and Len joined in with the familiar refrain, and Len thought rather wistfully about his time in Scotland. An air of happy optimism prevailed as they worked their way steadily down the coast of the island. Johnny began to reassess his opinion of Nicolaas. And so the night progressed.

★ ★ ★

At the beginning of the 23rd, their third day at sea, Johnny suggested that Nicolaas and Dawi take turns at the oars, too. The agent thought about this for a moment before relaying Johnny’s request to Dawi. The Javanese didn’t seem too perturbed.

‘What did he say?’ Johnny asked.

‘Nothing,’ replied a smiling Nicolaas. ‘Only that he would be praying for wind.’

And so they rearranged things, all five working in rotation and taking turns to rest at quarter-hour intervals. Again, they rested during the heat of the day and recommenced their journey in the late afternoon.

The north coast of Bangka Island was a place of breathtaking beauty. Pristine white sand stretched the length of the beaches they saw in passing. The landscape itself was dense, lush jungle, huge trees cascading down from the interior almost to the water’s edge. The soft curves of the skyline and cloudscape were counterpointed regularly by vertical granite sentinels of one and two thousand feet standing proud of the canopy, stark in places for want of cladding. Some of these formations stood in the sea, where erosion by water and the inexorable passage of time had created strange convoluted shapes and extraordinary sea caves.

Apart from the many species of sea birds, they saw flocks of land birds; particularly parrots, which rushed madly through the air in wild mobs squawking raucously before disappearing back into the trees. The birds that attracted Len’s attention most were the sea eagles and the occasional frigatebird, soaring on thermals high in the sky. Strong, independent and solitary.

When the coral rose up from the seabed, sometimes to just beneath their boat, the sea transformed through various shades, from dark purple to turquoise and aquamarine, and back again. Sometimes they could see the coral beneath, and the water became opalescent. They could see fish swimming in sometimes brilliant array, individually and in schools, and occasionally more sinister shapes passed darkly beneath them.

‘Jesus. Will you look at that,’ said Jock at one point, stopping rowing and staring at the water below the boat.

Len looked down. A shadow, easily the length of the prahu, passed beneath them. Shark! He thought instantly of Haami Parata, and of Ururoa. A new sensation enveloped him: not the wehi at all, but something more like confidence, warm and secure. Wana, Haami had called it. Excitement. He smiled, thinking of his friend. He smiled at the paradox: that the menace below seemed more like a talisman to him.

Johnny reached beneath his feet and felt the reassuring shape of his revolver among his stuff. The sea was flat calm, and the visibility beneath the water was substantial. Watching the shark as it followed them left them all mute for quite a while.

High cumulonimbus towered overhead, while, inland, the sky was blackening in the rising humidity of the day. They could see various monsoonal showers raining on other parts of the sea, but none came near to them. Instead it was the sun that added weight to their conditions.

★ ★ ★

Rowing into nightfall, they talked happily among themselves about home, family, women and what they would do when the war ended. When Len’s turn for rest arrived, he drifted off into another reverie. He was in front of the huge banyan in Newton Circus, adorned with coloured lights and swathed in a blue cloud of charcoal smoke and incense. While the band played ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’, he contemplated the array of taxi dancers sitting along the edge of the dance floor – Chinese, Malay, Eurasian – beautiful creatures, unblemished, raven-haired. He drifted back through the streets to the Mayfair, where the radio provided a similar background to the laughter and clinking of glasses. It was unreal, the war entirely absent. Until he began to think of Ava and Tim – and he struggled to break off his dreaming.

He woke up. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, squinting into some sort of focus. He had slept through sunset, and it was now dark. He looked out across the water. The only ripple to be seen or heard was that of the prahu itself, as it surged with each stroke – one, two, three, four and … quiet, as Jock this time rested the oars briefly. They glided on. In the sky, a dozen great columns, backlit by a hidden moon, loomed colossally overhead, the Milky Way glittering in the heavens between. When the moment came to change oarsmen, they stopped for a while, mesmerised. Len wondered if he really was awake. This was an extraordinary world in silver-toned negative, made more extraordinary by the irregular illuminations of lightning flashing within the clouds, underscored by the occasional dull rumble of distant thunder. There was an excruciating tension.

Len felt a tap on his shoulder, and it was his turn to relieve Jock of the oars. At the rear, Johnny and Dawi were changing seats, a delicate process involving careful balance and timing. Jock already lay on his back between two cross-beams, his head on the floorboards and his legs dangling over each of the gunwales, wedged against the strut in front. Nicolaas began to arrange himself accordingly. The long-legged Dutch agent had to sit upright, even when sleeping.

‘Fucking sardines,’ muttered Jock, from the bottom of the boat.

‘And good night to you too, mate,’ Len replied.

‘Perhaps we should think about some shore leave.’ Johnny laughed at his own joke. Len had only just saved himself from thinking about shore leave.

‘Weather seems to be avoiding us,’ Len commented.

‘Don’t speak too soon, old son,’ replied Johnny. ‘It’ll get us sooner or later. It’s the law of averages.’

With the other three resting, for a while it was just the two of them: Len rowing and Dawi on the steering oar. When the wind got up they were able to sail again, enjoying the coolness of the night air, before their turn to rest arrived.

★ ★ ★

By sunrise they had rounded the eastern-most tip of Bangka and settled their course due south towards Lepar Island. Rowing into the morning, and helped by the tide and a little breeze, they navigated the shoaling waters west of the Gaspar Straits. Johnny spent a lot of time quizzing the Commandant about the extent of the facility at Laboe. Laboe was a settlement on Lepar with a lighthouse with a radio, so Johnny assumed there would be some possibility of contact with a higher authority.

Guided eventually by the sight of the lighthouse, they finally made landfall on Lepar Island in the mid-morning. Still alert to the risk of discovery, they concealed their prahu under palm branches, crawled into the shade and immediately collapsed into sleep.

When they woke a couple of hours later, the mosquitoes had found them, and the land crabs were busily exploring their prostrate bodies. On realising this, Jock exploded into a violent fit, leaping to his feet. ‘Fuck off, you fucking horrible wee fucking shites,’ he shouted, striking out wildly with his foot, and kicking a crab out into the water.

The three sailors suddenly noticed that there were other people present. Nicolaas stood with a small group of curious locals.

‘I found the local agent,’ he called back to them.

‘Well, spit it out, man. What did you find?’ demanded Johnny, somewhat taken aback by the circumstances.

‘He destroyed his radio. The Japanese have been here already.’

‘Bastard.’ It was the first time Len or anybody else had heard Johnny curse with genuine vehemence. ‘No damned radio. Are you sure, man? Did you look around?’

‘No, I didn’t, but he was very scared. I don’t think he was lying.’

‘Damn it.’ Johnny carried on, addressing Nicolaas. ‘Take Jock with you and go back and see what he can do for us. Food, water, anything. And hurry. The sooner we get out of here, the better. Dawi had better stay here, in case we need him.’

As the two men turned to go, Johnny discreetly thrust a revolver into Jock’s hand and steered both hand and revolver into his pocket. With a nod, Jock and Nicolaas made off to the lighthouse in search of its keeper.

More curious onlookers approached. Johnny reached down for the other revolver and surreptitiously checked its chambers. He handed it to Len.

‘Keep it out of sight. They don’t look too threatening, but we need to keep an eye on the gear. Don’t leave it unattended.’

They stayed under the palms, waiting for Jock and the Commandant to return, while more curious villagers continued to gather. Word was spreading. Old women came offering coconut bowls full of rice, and an old man produced a small leaf parcel filled with dried fish. Hot dried fish. Some of the old hospitality prevailed. Johnny, Len and Dawi ate enthusiastically, making sure to save a decent portion for Jock and Nicolaas. They offered to purchase coconuts, for, while Johnny had no money, Len was somehow able to fish Singapore Straits dollars out of his pocket. Galvanised by the sight of the money, the locals were quick to provide a couple of dozen fresh green nuts, replenish their water supply and bring more dried fish and boiled eggs. When Jock and Nicolaas arrived back, they ate an egg each while their water containers were filled, after which they decided to push off immediately. The crowd had swollen to a curious bunch of perhaps a hundred individuals, some clearly agitated, and none of the sailors felt comfortable. A group of younger men were whispering conspiratorially to each other behind their hands. There were bound to be Japanese sympathisers within the community and, to be fair, the local inhabitants had every reason to feel uneasy themselves, with three Allied sailors in their midst and the Japanese, filled with aggressive intent, breathing down their necks. The sailors were outnumbered in an environment that at its best was insecure, and at its worst was hostile. They were better off at sea.

Len and Johnny steadied the slender prahu at each end, while the other three eased themselves backwards over the gunwales and into it. Then Len followed, leaving Johnny about to propel them out into the channel and leap aboard. Suddenly, a tall man from the village, who was standing in the water, lunged forward and seized Dawi by the arm. A fierce exchange took place between them, full of anger and blazing looks. The man tugged at Dawi’s forearm, threatening to overturn the prahu, before Dawi shook off his assailant and they succeeded in rowing out of reach of the throng. A lump of coral came arcing overhead and splashed into the water beside them.

‘Hurry, come on – hurry,’ Johnny said. ‘Before they get any other ideas.’ His anxiety was shared by the others, who rowed with extra vigour. Johnny had stopped concentrating on his steering, and had his hand on his revolver. While the little boat pulled away, he scanned the beach, and relaxed a little at the sight of the people beginning to disperse. There were no apparent signs of pursuit.

The men paddled swiftly out and away. Behind them, the lighthouse towered over a sprawling collection of attap huts, and they were soon around the point on which it was built.

‘What was that about, Nicolaas?’ Johnny asked.

‘They told Dawi to stay or he would die. Then they called him a traitor.’

‘Good God, man. Tell him he’s no traitor. Not to us.’

‘Yes, maybe not to you, but to others … well, it’s not so easy, especially for those who serve the Dutch. There is a new mood. The Japanese promise freedom and prosperity. Some people find that prospect attractive. Not me. We are simply changing masters. It would be nice to control our own destiny.’

Len remembered Haami saying the same thing.

Nicolaas went on.

‘For people like me it is much harder.’

‘You? What do you mean?’ asked Johnny.

‘My father was Dutch; my mother is Javanese. I live in two worlds, without being truly welcome in either.’

Len had some idea what that meant too.

Johnny took out the compass from under his shirt. They were entering the Macclesfield Channel, on the western side of the Gaspar Straits between Bangka and Billiton Islands, where Johnny set a course due south for Batavia. The biggest challenge was now in front of them.

From the west, the setting sun burst from behind a huge barricade of ominous black clouds, sending great horizontal beams like searchlights lancing across the sea and illuminating the lighthouse.

‘Will you look at that,’ exhorted Jock. ‘It’s the second coming.’

The moment was short-lived, the sun disappearing just as quickly as it had arrived. The gleaming whiteness of the lighthouse was engulfed by the lengthening shadow of an approaching sumatra, the wind that had given the island of Sumatra its name, now blackening the horizon. Lightning flashed indiscriminately along its front. Soon the winds began to agitate the sea, lick up small waves and toss spray into the prahu. By the time the last glimmer of daylight was vanishing, the five could only look forward, into the unfathomable black maw of a storm at night and 200 miles of open sea.

10

Desperate Voyage

Now the five men were out of sight of land it was the elements that occupied them, and Len found ample time to contemplate some of the things that his friend Haami had shared with him. Tāwhirimātea – the wind – Haami had told him, is a capricious god, invisible in form and shape, uncontrolled, mocking of lesser gods and ordinary men. He confronts you when you don’t need him and abandons you when you do. He imposes himself wherever he wishes, without consideration. Len knew of winds that shaped people’s lives: winds with such mana they had names given capital letters, like Mistral or Sirocco, and winds that have given names to places, like Sumatra. Indeed, the sumatra is a wind that should be treated with the utmost respect, a monsoonal wind that occurs when clouds swollen with moisture tumble down off the Sumatran highlands. It creates a monstrous squall effect on the water, a front of wind-whipped waves and a treacherous, agitated seascape. Out over the warmer sea the clouds rise, releasing rain in huge volumes. The men had no sooner fled the menace of Laboe than they had to set their teeth and sail into such a storm.

Haami’s advice about the sea was equally present in Len’s thinking. He had said that the sea – Tangaroa – is capricious in its own way, with its own form of expression. This night the waves were almost playful in the beginning, of a height and vigour that, by way of introduction, was just enough to splash the men a little or land inside the prahu. It seemed that Tāwhirimātea and Tangaroa were joined together in playful harmony. For a while the prahu surfed along the front of the swells that overhauled them, the boat neatly cleaving the following sea, which parted and dragged them along in its wake until another faster swell came along. Then the wind pressure increased, and they could see the big waves coming. When they came, driven by real wind this time, they arrived like an express train passing through a station: waves that seemed as big as carriages, one after the other. Johnny steered the prahu around now, into the wind, and the roar of Tāwhiri increased. Len and Jock took an oar each, working together to keep the boat stable. As conditions worsened, it was no longer possible to manage the oars; they shipped them both and laid them on the floorboards. Johnny, on the steering oar, struggled to maintain the prahu’s bow into the wind. Instinctively, Len took up a paddle and, elbowing his way forward, reached out to dig it deep into the water, helping to hold the bow into the wind.

Tāwhiri’s only superior was Tūmatauenga, the god of war. Tū of the red eyes is also the god of man. The connection is simple, perhaps: man being the only animal arrogant or stupid enough to attempt to oppose the gods. Tū used man in order to express himself, to wage war. In Len tonight he had a willing proxy, for Len was driven inexorably to a smouldering anger, fuelled by loss and by fear. He had lost his closest friend as well as his innocence, and if he was afraid of anything now, it was his own loneliness and the guilt. But it was mostly anger that drove Len, ordinary man and common soldier, to bare his teeth to the storm and battle the gods, armed only with a paddle and a duty to survive.

With the sumatra comes rain. It fell so heavily now that they could hardly keep their eyes open. It lashed the sea and hammered the men. It came in such volume that they began to think that the rain alone would be enough to swamp the boat. Johnny crouched wide-eyed at the rear of the tossing prahu, struggling to see where the next wave was coming from while still trying with Len’s help to keep the nose into the wind. The other three bailed, using a coolie hat and tins that Johnno had adapted as bailers. They had to raise planks in the centre of the floor in order to empty the cavity below. Loose coconuts rolled around, impeding and irritating them.

There was no prospect of keeping any kind of course. They would make good progress if they could stay close to the wind. But these conditions required them to react moment by moment to wave peaks that loomed out of the darkness and dwarfed the little boat, lofting it so high out of the water that the men had to drop their paddles or bailers and grab at the sides. Each time, they soared almost to weightlessness before the prahu crested the peak and fell into the fathomless trough on the other side. Then they grabbed their bailers and continued to fling water back out of the boat in a frenzy before another monster arrived, and another, and the night grew even darker.

In fact, the waves were not as large as those Len had seen in other places, but to the five men in the tiny prahu they were gargantuan. Len considered all the big seas he had encountered. There was the character-forming night aboard the Wakakura off Palliser Bay, when everybody on board except him had vomited uncontrollably. There were the really big seas in the Atlantic, on their way to Freetown. Then, the big ships had pounded through monumental swells that made them look just as vulnerable to the sea as he felt now. The South Atlantic, superior in breadth and depth, delivered swell with a long subtle cadence. The Java Sea is not so deep, nor so vast. There are many islands, so the swell is smaller and less rhythmic – but the sea state can be more vigorous and less predictable. Tonight, the waves were so chaotic, and the movement so violent, they gave no thought to changing seats or sharing the steering. They stuck to the tasks on which their lives depended. The wind roared and sometimes wailed as the velocity intensified, then abated. Waves reared up in front of them like coiled snakes and flung their foamy venom at them with great hisses. Every now and again, when a crest looked particularly high or a trough especially black, one and all would roar spontaneously: in defiance of their fear, in defiance of Tangaroa.

All night Johnny hauled on the steering oar, fighting to keep the little craft from being blown side-on to the waves. In the bow Len now knelt to allow himself greater reach with his paddle. When he saw the nose drift off line, he would lean right outside the boat, the only thing holding him in being his knees wedged firmly against the prahu’s sides. Then he would dig his paddle deep into the sea and literally pull the bow of the boat back into the wind, in readiness for the next wave. Nicolaas, sitting in the rear in front of Johnny, was the biggest on board. His weight was crucial to the boat’s balance and trim; when they were surfing down a wave, he was frequently called upon to lean backwards, to prevent the bow from digging into the water and causing the prahu to pitchpole. At these moments Len, too, would lean as far backwards as he could. Jock, sitting behind him, leaned forward and bellowed in his ear, ‘You’re not frightened, are you, laddie?’

The wind tore the words past Len’s ear, but not before he heard them. There was no point in shouting back, but, understanding the Scotsman’s irony, he simply raised his paddle in a gesture of triumph, hunched back down in the wedge of the bow and brought the boat’s nose around again and into another wave.

Behind Jock sat Dawi, rigid with terror. His eyes were firmly shut as he bailed. There was enough water in the bottom of the boat that he really didn’t need to see what he was doing.

★ ★ ★

Night passed, and the storm abated. It left as speedily as it had arrived. By the time the sun rose on the 24th, the conditions were biblically calm. When the first rays found the men, they shipped their paddles and oars and lay back exhausted, marvelling at their survival. The waves disappeared with the wind and, for half an hour, they slumped in their seats only half conscious. There was an extraordinary clarity to the atmosphere and, after the persistent roar of the wind, a deafening silence. And then Johnny was forced to intrude. ‘We can’t stop now. Come on, boys; we can’t stop now.’

‘And after the storm came a still, small voice …’ quoted Jock.

They all groaned. They sat up and took stock. Half the coconuts had been lost; nevertheless, they took Dawi’s parang from its sheath, slashed the top off the nut and treated themselves to fresh coconut milk. The biscuits were totally sodden, and went straight over the side. They ate another boiled egg and drank a little water each. Johnny had rationed them to only one mug daily between the five at this stage of the voyage. They had only a rough idea of how long this part would take, and no idea where the next water might come from. Happily, they found the frequent rains delivered plenty into their open mouths.

Jock belched, breaking the silence. ‘Magic.’

‘I’ll second that,’ Johnny said. ‘If that wasn’t a test of fortitude, I don’t know what is. Well done, boys.’

He leant forward and patted Nicolaas on the back. Nobody else moved.

‘But we have to keep going. There will be several more days of this if we are going to succeed. We need to think of the others.’

He seemed to realise this might not have been the most motivational of speeches. He waved his compass. ‘Look. I think we have made good progress, even in the storm. It’s driven us south, towards Batavia. So it’s not at all bad. If we can keep at it and catch a breeze or two, we could peel off another fifty miles before tomorrow, easily. We could be there in three more days.’

Slowly, not unwillingly, they readied themselves, unwinding their limbs as best they could, one at a time, pulling and stretching and groaning with the stiffness and muscle soreness. Last night they had exercised muscles they didn’t know they possessed. They didn’t bother changing places; the physical challenge was the same wherever they sat. Johnny, burdened with command, stayed tied to the stern. They checked the cords that tied the oars and bailers to the prahu, reaffirming their appreciation for Johnno’s thoroughness.

Nicolaas noticed a loose piece of rope floated in the water which still lay in the bottom of the boat, lapping under the floorboards, and tugged at it. It was in fact caulking that the flexing of the prahu in the storm had worked loose. He hauled up nearly a yard of it before seeing water begin to bubble up from the hole he had created.

Dawi shrieked in terror, thinking they were sinking. Nicolaas tried to stuff the rope back into the seam with his hands, but the rope simply floated back to the surface again. It was Jock who imposed calm, thrusting the two improvised bailers into their respective hands. ‘Bail, you bastards, bail.’

Even Dawi understood his instruction, and proceeded to bail like a man possessed, flinging water from the boat as fast as he could. Nicolaas followed his lead. A shower of water erupted from the boat, and the level inside at least began to stabilise. While Johnny and Len looked on from opposite ends of the prahu, Jock calmly lifted a section of the floorboards and felt below the water for the source of the leak. He then pulled the parang from its sheath and used the handle to push the rope back into its seam. Now the water level began to lower, and soon enough the seam itself was visible at the bottom of the boat. Jock used the blade of the parang to force the rope deeper into the gap, and then stopped. Those that could watched to see what would happen. It only took a few seconds for water to well again through the fissure and begin to accumulate.

‘Bugger,’ Jock said. ‘Better lift the floorboards and see what else is happening, lads.’

The inspection involved moving men and coconuts back and forth to lift each section of flooring and expose the hull beneath. To their consternation, they found water welling up through other seams. The bailing had to continue.

Surreptitiously, each man glanced to starboard at the southern horizon, in search of land, but there was none.

‘OK,’ said Johnny, ‘We’re going to have to re-prioritise. Somebody will have to bail. Get rid of that centre section of flooring so we can empty the hull from its lowest point. We will have somebody bailing at all times, and fifteen minutes longer between rests. Understood?’

When they were ready, Len took up the oars again.

★ ★ ★

Like most February mornings in the tropics, the 24th started relatively clear. They were able to erect the small sail, which helped speed their passage for a while. They eased their rowing back to a slower tempo – one and two and three and rest – and still achieved a better overall speed. Mid-morning they observed an expanse of broken water to their east, and Johnny guessed from the chart that they were somewhere near the Five Fathom Banks.

By midday, when the sun was high in the sky and the breeze had dropped away entirely, they were forced to row again without the benefit of sail. The sea was placid, and blossoming storm clouds were beginning to station themselves threateningly in the sky once more as the temperature and humidity rose. They sweated heavily, unable to rehydrate adequately. They rested their oars frequently, and splashed water over themselves. There was barely any difference in temperatures. Len laughed to himself as he considered the irony – a few hours ago they had been bailing water out for all they were worth. As the afternoon lengthened, they rowed with more ease. They talked sparingly, economical with their energy. One, and two, and three, and four. And rest, two, three, four.

Johnny called a rest for all at intervals. After working through the rations in his head, he decided to allow another coconut to be broached.

‘Call it afternoon tea,’ he said, when they stopped paddling to pass the decapitated nut around.

Jock began to sing, rowing steadily to the rhythm once more. The song was unfamiliar to the others, telling a story of hard life in Scotland. There were several verses, each followed by a chorus about spring in Scotland and the yellow of the broom. It would have surprised Jock to know how familiar Scottish broom was to the Kiwis.

As the heat of the afternoon continued to intensify, thunderheads materialised, massed and melded. Len watched the sun disappear behind them, causing the clouds to glow internally, from the dark bituminous brown at the centre of some clouds to the gold that braided their edges. Even the sea was brown, stained by the tannins leached out of the leaf litter on the vast floor of the Sumatran jungle, and browned further with the silt and vegetation washed down off the mountains and the low-lying rice fields and mangrove swamps. As they rowed towards another night, this great mass of brownness reached around, over and behind them.

By early evening, they were among squalls thick with rain, falling straight down from perfectly shaped anvil-headed clouds. As one squall passed over them, they stopped paddling to turn their faces to the sky. They opened their mouths to let the drops fall straight in. Len swept his hands over his hair, his face, his chest and his arms, in ritual ablution. It wasn’t so much about washing the salt from his body, since these waters were not particularly salty. It was to rinse away the sweat, which stung his eyes and his cracked lips. He had a raw blister in the palm of each hand where the oars fitted, and deep cracks split the skin at the edge of his palms and even the heels of his feet, where they were jammed against the floorboards. His arse was so numb he began to think gangrene would set in. He rinsed his improvised turban with rainwater and wrung out the salt before wrapping it back on his head again. For a few minutes they floated immobile while the cleansing rain poured down, and when it passed they rowed on. It was Len’s turn to bail.

Brown gave way to black. They expected another sumatra, but the conditions were not so violent this time, though just as unpredictable. This encouraged them to put the sail up, but it required constant vigilance against sudden knock-down. Between squalls they found themselves benefitting from peripheral breezes, and sometimes in a hole, with no wind at all. It was enough to keep them all on their toes, and it was the pattern of things throughout the night and into the morning of the 25th.

★ ★ ★

After five days of almost non-stop rowing, all of them were relying heavily on their fitness and stamina. Len, Jock and Johnny were fit – the two ratings particularly – and Dawi had a wiry resilience about him. But Nicolaas, the biggest of the five, although he did not carry extra weight, had nothing of the physical edge that the others had. He was inclined to ship his oars at will, and Johnny indulged him, thinking it better to avoid conflict and allow him to keep his own pace. Overall, it was crucial that they didn’t over-extend themselves. They needed energy in reserve, for the unexpected.

Around midday of 25 February, when the sun was at its height, the weather settled. Johnny called a halt to rowing, and they panted under the shade of their coolie hats, the sail hanging limply from its mast. A coconut was passed around, then the last boiled eggs and a tin of bully beef. They finished with a final draught of coconut milk and lay propped up in the prahu for a while, enjoying a few minutes of well-earned rest.

Johnny took out his binoculars and scanned the southern horizon.

‘A couple more hours and we should be able to see land,’ he announced.

In fact, it took several more hours before he was confident enough to point to the west. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Land.’

‘Hold me up,’ exclaimed Jock. ‘Where? You’re not joking, are you?’ When he saw it, he said, ‘Bugger me. And I was beginning to enjoy this.’

Len couldn’t resist channelling Tim. ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

One by one, they all took turns to look through the glasses at the low blue shape along the horizon. Reinvigorated, they addressed the night and began rowing again.

★ ★ ★

By their sixth day at sea, now bailing and rowing continuously, the fatigue was beginning to tell. Len’s eyes streamed as a breeze drove sweat into his eyes. The day was kind, with only a few light clouds to blemish the sky, as their course slowly converged with the Sumatran shore, and land drew closer and closer.

It was Nicolaas’s turn to rest, and Johnny was rowing now, bending his back into each stroke. Long periods passed without a word being spoken. When the wind abated they dropped the sail, rowing mechanically, counting the strokes before pausing, staring constantly at the southern horizon.

‘Aircraft!’ Johnny had his binoculars up to his eyes, looking towards the coast. He adjusted the focus. Everybody stopped what they were doing and turned to follow his gaze. They hadn’t actually seen a plane since departing Tjibia. To the naked eye, these planes were too far away; all Len saw were specks against the distant landscape, moving parallel to the horizon, heading in the same direction they were. They started to row again, but this time with a different focus, as each man now cast his eyes about for any sign of aircraft, friendly or otherwise. It was a measure of their progress. As they drew closer to their destination, there was a need to heighten their vigilance.

‘You know what to do if they get too close,’ Johnny reminded them.

Johnny was thorough. Each man had been briefed on a procedure should they attract the interest of an enemy vessel or aircraft. This was just as well, for only minutes after the first aircraft sighting, they heard the sound of more aircraft, much closer than the first, and getting closer.

‘All right. Quickly, now.’

They shipped the oars – the sail was already down. Johnny and Jock curled up as best they could in the bottom of the prahu, and Dawi piled the sail over them. The other three, each with a coolie hat or a turban, looked much more like native Sumatrans, Len’s whakapapa predisposing him to a deep tan. From a shirt pocket or a pouch, each of the three produced a length of cord with a small engine nut tied on the end, and cast it over the side, so that they gave every appearance of locals fishing offshore.

The noise was behind them. They looked back to see another four aircraft flying at a low altitude only about a mile away, towards the coast. They watched as the sound grew louder and the planes drew abreast of the prahu and began to pass it by. The men were watching intently when the aircraft on the port side of the wing of four suddenly detached sharply from the others in a tight turn and headed directly towards the prahu.

Len watched, transfixed. The silhouette, which increased in size as it sped towards them, revealed none of the cumbersome undercarriage of a floatplane. It was a fighter that began to fill their vision, just as Len imagined they would be filling the gunsights of the pilot, and it hurtled across the wave tops straight at them. He could hear Jock growling from his concealment in fury and frustration.

The Japanese pulled on his joystick and pushed his right foot down, rolling his aircraft up and over the top of the tiny vessel, the roar of the engine pummelling those below. He raised his hand to them in acknowledgement, and flew off to rejoin his group.

‘Magic! Bloody magic!’ said Jock, exploding with the tension. ‘They went for it. Hook, line and sinker!’

He laughed uproariously at his own joke, and waved defiantly at the disappearing aircraft.

★ ★ ★

They paddled into the late afternoon. It had been almost three days since they had left Laboe and the relative security of coastal waters for the open sea, and it was invigorating to again see the landscape in some detail, and to be able to gauge their progress against it once more. In fact, they had made outstanding progress, but at some cost. They had carved out about 300 miles over nearly seven days of almost continuous rowing, across a constant procession of south-easterly fronts, and were in a seriously fatigued state. Kneeling or crouching in the confines of the tiny vessel, they were beginning to reach the limits of their physical endurance.

The closing light of day prompted Johnny to take one last reading with the compass before darkness prevailed.

‘At this rate, we’ll be in Batavia some time tomorrow,’ he announced. ‘Perhaps as early as midday tomorrow, weather permitting. But we have to cross the Sunda Strait.’

Len, who had been watching the gathering sky ahead of them, sensed another test.

‘It looks like a bit of weather ahead.’

‘The current will be a factor. We’ll have to be on our toes.’

They stopped rowing and contemplated the sky. The sun was setting in a blazing orange conflagration behind burgeoning black cloud, and it was clear the generosity of the weather was about to expire. Night began to overhaul them, and rising winds and mounting seas drove them harder towards the southern horizon. A seething blackness waited for them, hovering over the Sunda Strait, which separated them from Java and safety.

The storm was much more powerful than anything they had experienced. When Tāwhiri began to whip the wave caps white, he forced them to drop the sail, and with every blast of wind that followed, began to push them south towards the Strait. If they had kept the prahu sailing with the wind, they could have surfed with the following seas, but to do so would have meant being swept into the Indian Ocean. When Tangaroa began to impose himself, every trough and swell further drove them towards the Straits, towards oblivion. There were moments of absolute blackness, when Len thought he saw the ghastly face of Hine Nui Te Pō, and felt her frozen fingers probe his viscera. They had no choice if they wanted to survive but to turn the prahu into the wind and row as they had never rowed before.

Again, Len and Jock took an oar each while Johnny hung on to the sweep oar. Nicolaas and Dawi bailed. For hours they fought to survive. There were times when Nicolaas had to help Johnny hold the steering oar hard against relentless wind seeking to force the prahu beam-on to the waves, which would have sunk them. It became impossible to use the oars, and Jock lent himself to bailing while Len took up a paddle. He wedged himself into the bow once more, reached as far out as possible, and dug it deep into the water, in order to keep the boat into the wind. At the height of the storm, the rain lashed down and the wind created breaking waves of great size, big enough to fill the boat and swamp it easily.

They did not paddle so much as bail for their lives. At the worst moment, a wave slewed right over the port gunwale and into the boat, passing down its length. They were left wallowing at the bottom of a trough with barely six inches of freeboard inside the prahu and another wave looming out of the black. All of them worked furiously with their hands and bailers to empty the water and recover buoyancy before the next wave hit them. They were not exactly ready when it arrived, but fortunately this one wasn’t as big as the previous one. While it caught them beam on, Len was able to snatch up his paddle and dig it into the water as the wave arrived. His paddle became a pivot, around which the wave-swept prahu rotated, to point safely into the waves once again.

‘Good on you, mate,’ roared Johnny above the wind.

As the prahu slid down into another trough, the men’s spirits lifted, and everybody began to sense that this night would be survivable. Jock, bailing maniacally with a coolie hat, burst into song. Turned towards the wind and letting the rain pelt onto his face, he sang:

You’ll take the high road,

And I’ll take the low road,

And I’ll get to Scotland a’fore ye …

Half drowned, they all laughed at the madness of it all, and Jock milked it for all he was worth. He sang on in a strained falsetto, while Dawi and Nicolaas bailed with him in unison, shouting out the odd word they thought they recognised. Len and Johnny between them steadied the prahu until they were floating higher in the water, when the rowing resumed in earnest. Determined to survive, they threw themselves into the search for another dawn.

★ ★ ★

To their great relief, the glimmer of the sun rising coincided with the passing of the storm. As the light advanced they became more aware of their situation. At sunset, the Sumatran coast had been to starboard, but in the confusion of the storm, the Javanese coast now presented on their port side. They had also travelled a lot further than the direct course would have required. In the still that followed the storm they collapsed, mute and exhausted. Only Johnny continued to work, slowly flinging water overboard.

Len’s back muscles ached so badly he felt as if he had been beaten with batons. His eyes burned with exposure to salt and lack of rest. His hands hurt as he unwound his grip from the paddle, and his blistered palms bled. His knees and his backside ached too. There were tender patches that he couldn’t bear to touch, pressure points that constant immersion in the water had softened, to create sores. The tropics were not kind to open wounds. His lips were cracked and peeling, and his saliva was like glue. His tongue was swollen and stuck to the roof of his mouth. His head pounded, such was his dehydration, and for a while he lay unmoving against the framing. He wasn’t the only one.

Johnny sanctioned the consumption of both remaining coconuts and another round of bully beef, and they finished their silent repast with a little water each.

The waves still jostled and the wind still gusted, but for a while they sat slumped, resting and waiting for the restoration of their energy. The sun began to force its way between rain-swollen clouds scudding low overhead in the wake of the storm. They were in the process of preparing to start off again when they heard the unmistakeable sound of aircraft. Johnny didn’t need his glasses to confirm it this time. ‘Look,’ he called out, and pointed into the Strait, where nine aircraft flew low over the waves about a mile away.

The noise grew louder, and they could see a second group of planes flying a parallel course to the first. Still the noise increased, behind them this time, and they all turned in their seats to see more low-flying planes between them and the shore. They didn’t have time to disguise themselves; nor did they need to. Had the pilots bothered to look, they would have noticed a prahu of weathered fishermen apparently making an early start to the day.

The noise reached a thunderous crescendo when nine more planes, clearly bombers, roared over the prahu and, along with the rest, flew on towards the shore. The red roundels of Japan were clearly visible.

‘Jesus. Some bastard’s going to cop it.’

Jock wasn’t the only one who felt a pang of empathy for the intended victims of the raid. They saw the flecks of other clusters of aircraft pass through the sky, before they and the noise eventually disappeared.

Johnny had unfolded his chart and compass, and was squinting purposefully towards the shore.

‘I can’t see enough yet, but I’m guessing if those planes are heading anywhere important in this part of Java, it is probably Merak.’

‘Where’s Merak?’

‘Merak is where we are headed. It’s a port and, likely as not, our best chance for making contact with the authorities. Batavia is out of reach. We’re heading for Merak.’

There was no equivocation. Nicolaas and Dawi had long since placed their trust in Johnny’s hands, and nodded when they recognised the name of the port, and Len and Jock already had their oars in the water. With the sail up, by now fairly tattered but still functional, and the current behind them but now working in their favour, they set off on the last leg of their voyage, faster now than ever.

Johnny kept their course close to the shore. Everybody felt more relaxed when they could see the landscape and read its detail. It was therapeutic, energising – safe. Staying close to shore was an exercise in caution. Even so, there was a lack of certainty. They all understood the risk, but within themselves each man believed that the Japanese could not possibly have seized the Dutch Indies in the time they had taken to voyage from Singapore. But they could not be sure.

As they drew closer to Merak, they soon saw that Jock had been right; some bastard had definitely copped it. But Len felt his spirits rise as the five men in the tiny prahu paddled the final couple of miles to what they hoped would be safety.

★ ★ ★

It was eleven o’clock on the morning of 27 February when they entered the port. After nearly six hours of constant paddling and bailing, Johnny ordered his men to stop. For the last fourteen days their physical world had been unimaginably distorted. Now they had to take stock.

‘Listen carefully,’ Johnny said. ‘The Japs are hardly bombing their own, so we can safely assume this place is friendly. But it’s still dangerous, and we may have to look after ourselves.’

They had been passing a cup of water around, and he paused to take some.

‘So … let’s sort ourselves out. Get out your caps, boys, and drop that damned sail. Let’s raise something a bit more impressive.’

He stooped down into the bag at his feet and began to haul out a length of sheet. This turned out to be a Navy White Ensign, which they attached to the mast. There was very little wind at this point, but when they rowed it would flare, and they would certainly be identifiable.

They made their way, cautiously, into the harbour.

Merak had some of the atmosphere of Singapore, being a city under assault from the air, and they stopped rowing to absorb the scene. A number of grey-painted warships lay at anchor, from which muted klaxons sounded, and over which sailors moved swiftly, assessing, repairing and re-arming. Thick clouds of smoke and the odour of cordite drifted towards them on the breeze. Fires were burning from go-downs and defence installations along the shore. The ships were of various sizes and types, and apparently unharmed. Len thought one of the smaller ones seemed familiar.

‘Isn’t that one of the Aussie corvettes?’ he said.

‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ answered Johnny.

Jock recognised it. ‘It’s the Maryborough, sir.’

A shout rang out. ‘Keep your distance! Do not approach!’

‘A fine fucking welcome,’ muttered Jock.

‘We will send a boat!’ the same voice called.

Already a squad of sailors was piling into a small motorboat being readied on the water. Johnny reached between his legs once more and this time produced a bottle.

‘I think we have earned this,’ he said.

He unscrewed the top off the whisky and passed it forward.

Nicolaas crossed himself before taking a long draught and handing the bottle on. Dawi took a short draught and then choked, coughed and spluttered when he tried to swallow. Jock rescued the bottle. Gesturing melodramatically, he took a healthy draught of his own and then swallowed, presenting to the hapless Dawi a saturnine look of self-satisfaction, followed by a deep growl. He handed the bottle to Len, who drank as if he was receiving his first communion, tentatively at first and then eventually filling his mouth and raising his face to the sky, letting the burning liquor flow slowly down his throat, set his stomach on fire, stoke the warmth in his tired and aching limbs and reinvigorate his spirit. Then the bottle went back to Johnny.

The five men sat idly in their prahu, rocking to and fro, and waited.

Another shout came, from the approaching launch this time. ‘Johnny Bull! Is that you? Johnny Bull?’

Johnny stood up and stared in the direction of the other boat. ‘Yes, it is. Is that you, Glen?’

‘Yes, it is. Mate. How are you going?’

The question was rhetorical; even at a hundred yards, Johnny’s friend could see the parlous state of the little prahu and its crew. Lieutenant Glen Cant RAN, in command of HMAS Maryborough, had worked closely with Johnny during the coastal raids in Malaya, before Cant and his flotilla had been sent to Java.

‘How the hell do you think I’m going?’

And for a moment it was as if they were all standing on a street corner somewhere, marvelling at some serendipitous encounter.

As the launch approached the men, all five refocussed. There were several armed men on board, who had their weapons pointed straight at them. All five involuntarily raised their hands, not in a full gesture of surrender, but enough to demonstrate they were unarmed, as the launch came around and glided to a halt beside them. Johnny and his Aussie mate shook hands, while the others relaxed. One of the Aussie sailors handed Len a rope. He winked. ‘Gidday, mate. Been rowing long?’

The men on the launch helped the five as best they could to unwind their stiffened legs and stand before transferring to the launch. Each of the five carried his bundle of personal items, and Len had the little case with all the mail. They went to the Maryborough first, where Johnny disappeared to brief Glen Cant. Glen told Johnny, who in turn told the crew, what was known about the fate of their fellow escapees. It was a grim recitation. Virtually all of the boats that had departed Singapore on 13 February and their passengers and crews had been lost. ML311 and HDML1062 had been sunk; most of the crew, and the two commanders, Ernest Christmas RANVR and Colin McMillan RNZNVR, were lost. Another HDML had been destroyed before even leaving Singapore, though HDML1063 was believed to be safe.

The four men from the prahu sluiced themselves under a freshwater hose before accepting mugs of hot tea and sliced bread, smeared with tinned Australian butter. Glen Cant had seen service in the Mediterranean, commanding the destroyer Vendetta, but his corvette’s ratings were largely new recruits.

‘Jeez, you bastards,’ one of them commented, watching them eat. ‘Looks like you were lucky to make it, eh?’

It was Jock’s turn for understatement. ‘Nae, laddie. It was a fucking holiday. A Nippon holiday – haven’t seen one for days.’

‘Come on, you lot,’ Johnny said. ‘Grab your stuff. There’s so much going on, we’re going to the Sirius to sort it out. We need to report to the Dutch.’

Somewhat reluctant to leave their Aussie friends, they put down their half-drunk mugs and made their way in the launch to the Sirius, a Dutch light cruiser, towing the prahu behind them. On the Sirius, Johnny and Glen Cant disappeared again, while the others gladly surrendered themselves to the care and curiosity of the Dutch crew.

They were taken to the ship’s galley and given hot coffee this time, with spoons full of condensed milk, and sandwiches thick with cheese and sausage. Len and Jock hadn’t had it this good in Singapore. Now it was Nicolaas who was able to speak at length; the Dutch sailors asked him questions, and occasionally he repeated them in English for the benefit of the other two. ‘They asked me if we had seen Japanese, and what was Singapore like? I told them I was not there. I told them to ask you.’

‘Tell them to look outside,’ Jock answered. ‘And multiply it by a hundred.’

The noise of activity banged and echoed through the ship, and shortly the four were left to their own devices. They sat, a little dazed. Jock stared unblinking at a bulkhead, thinking of something far, far away. Dawi was already asleep, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to the same bulkhead. Nicolaas, too, was apparently asleep, in the middle of reading a local newspaper, several weeks old, that a sailor had given him. Len felt his eyelids begin to droop and shade his vision.

The banging was suddenly usurped by the squawk of the ship’s klaxons and an announcement in Dutch. The urgency of both was easy to interpret, and was confirmed when one of the Dutch sailors returned briefly, to speak to them. ‘Hello! We see more enemy aircraft. Take these. Stay here!’

He threw five life jackets onto the floor and disappeared. The noises associated with imminent attack rose: shouting, the whine of winches and turrets and the first, sporadic firing from the Sirius’s anti-aircraft defences. The cacophony increased as the enemy pressed home their attack. At first it was the sound of bombs, then the roar of aircraft engines immediately overhead, when the flurry of anti-aircraft fire concentrated into a storm.

‘Fighter-bombers again. Fuck this,’ said Jock. ‘I’m going up on deck. Maybe I can do something. Are ye coming, Lenny?’

Len didn’t need a second prompt, but Nicolaas and Dawi stayed put. Len and Jock raced towards the ladder, and were about to scale it when Johnny and a young Dutch ensign reappeared, sliding down the ladder from above.

‘You two! Get the others. We have to leave. Now! Meet me here in two minutes.’ Johnny disappeared back up the ladder again. All around them the explosions and firing raged as the enemy planes attacked.

Two minutes later the five met again.

‘Right. Get on with it. Down the ladder and onto the launch. The fleet is leaving. Right now.’

No sooner had Johnny spoken than they heard the sound of the anchor winches. All of them – Johnny, Jock, Len, Dawi and Nicolaas – climbed swiftly down the ladder, to where the launch with Glen Cant and the Australian crew waited. They untied from the ship’s ladder, pulled away and headed for the shore. Johnny turned to his two ratings and explained what was happening, as best he knew. Because they spoke Dutch, Nicolaas and Dawi already understood what was going on.

Jock was quick to react. ‘So what are we to do on Java, sir? Are we off to join the army? Why don’t we stay with the fleet? The Aussies would have us, surely?’

His frustration was palpable. Len was confused too. It seemed like their journey hadn’t yet ended.

‘What are we expected to do on shore?’ he asked.

‘We have to report to the Naval authorities in Batavia,’ Johnny told them. ‘They’ll sort us out. OK?’

Before Johnny could continue, Glen Cant spoke.

‘That’ll be John Collins. He commands a component of the new Allied Combined Fleet; he’s an Aussie. We served together in the Med: he’s a good bloke. We have been ordered to leave for Tjilatjap. The Japs could be anywhere. The way things are going, I think you’ll be safer on land.’

Jock and Len nodded. Len knew, they all knew that they had to keep going. At least they would be on dry land – land that wasn’t occupied by the enemy – although it seemed likely that was about to change.

11

Java

The five men made the short voyage to shore without speaking, immersed in thought, their senses so dulled by fatigue that they were almost oblivious to the action around them. Only when they tied up did they realise that this was the moment when they were to separate as a group; it was time to say goodbye to Nicolaas and Dawi. The two men climbed aboard the prahu, still attached to the launch, and untied it. For a moment all five men looked at one another, then Johnny stuck out his hand to Nicolaas. ‘Good luck, old man. And thank you. We couldn’t have done it without you.’ Then he shook Dawi’s hand too, and repeated the sentiment. ‘We couldn’t have done it without you, my friend. Thank you.’

Dawi grasped Johnny’s hand with both of his and bowed until his brow and the hands met. He mumbled a Batak ‘thank you’.

He shook Len’s hand with equal warmth and gratitude. Then Jock and Dawi stood eye to eye and grasped each other in a quick embrace, before a Dutch soldier appeared at the top of the ladder exhorting them to hurry up. Len began the climb from the boat.

Johnny said goodbye to Glen Cant. ‘Might see you in Tjilatjap,’ he told him.

‘Yeah, righto. Good luck, mate.’

The two officers didn’t salute; they shook hands, then Johnny climbed up after his ratings to set foot on dry land again, while both the prahu and the launch headed off, in different directions. The three raised their hands in salute to the prahu, now just another native boat, and received two-handed waves in return.

★ ★ ★

Now Johnny explained to Len and Jock what he had learned from Glen Cant and Captain Hokke GN of the Sirius, and what he proposed to do. The two men listened carefully.

‘The Japs captured Palembang, probably about when we ran aground, and they control Sumatra. They are expected to land in Java at any time.’

‘They’re right up our arse,’ said Jock, stating a blunt truth.

‘You could put it that way, Jock. Yes. These ships in Merak are part of a fleet assembled to intercept them. Any remaining vessels of the British Auxiliary Fleet have been ordered to leave for Tjilatjap on the south coast. Hokke, the Dutch commander told me there’s talk of an evacuation from there.’

The three briefly pondered their prospects.

Jock flung his bag up onto a waiting lorry and climbed up after it.

‘Let’s not mess about, then. Come on, Lenny.’

Len didn’t need much encouragement. As long as he could feel the sun on his back, he was heading in the right direction. He handed up his little case, clambered up beside the Scotsman, and the two of them grabbed Johnny by the arms and hauled him up.

★ ★ ★

The DAF lorry whined in low gear along the narrow concrete paving, lurching over fractures and skirting around works, dodging bicycles and the foot traffic that swelled hour on hour as the impact of the Japanese attacks hit home on the local population. They travelled at a speed somewhere between high second and low third gear, and stopped frequently. Len found the lurching of the truck combined with the peculiar odours of the land particularly unpleasant, especially where an accident with a dead buffalo caused the road to narrow to one lane.

At the point where they crossed the road to Bantam and the coast, they were forced to stop once more, and so got out and stretched. They could hear the sound of bombing and see thick clouds of smoke rising from Tanjung Priok, Batavia’s port, sixty miles away, while behind them was similar evidence of the raid on Merak. When the driver sounded his horn, they scrambled back into the truck. It began to crawl along, and Len went back to his bundle and sat down. It beat rowing, he thought, but it wasn’t much faster.

Johnny was sharp enough that when Len and Jock began to unwrap a veritable feast of chicken parts, boiled eggs, cheese and sausage – gifts of the cook on the Sirius – he made them divide it up into rations enough to last them for the next couple of days. Given the climate, he allowed them to devour the chicken first; they did so with alacrity. Later, as the heat became intolerable under the canopy of the truck, Len tied back some of the canvas and enabled air to flow through. From the bottom of his bag he pulled out the revolver Johnny had given him. He took a rag from a pile covering the vehicle’s wheel jack, broke down the weapon and began to clean it. All three then spent some time slowly and methodically stripping down their revolvers, cleaning and reassembling them, a ritual of renewal, in a deeply meditative silence.

Eventually the three of them, senseless with fatigue, surrendered to the motion of the vehicle and fell into a deep slumber. In spite of the road surface, they managed to sleep for some time, before the sound of a rabble intruded on their rest. It disturbed Johnny first, who looked at his watch. It was after three in the afternoon. The other two stirred, sighing and groaning, having slept like the dead. Len stuck his head out from beneath the canvas. There was a shout, and he quickly brought it back in again.

‘What do you see, Len?’ asked Johnny.

‘I’d say we’re nearly there, sir. Batavia. There’s some sort of military road block, and the intersection is jammed. There are people trying to move in all directions. And there’s a car with a Dutch family in it, stuck in the middle. There are soldiers trying to sort it all out.’

After some interaction between the driver and the soldiers on the ground, they were able to inch their way through the mass and progress slowly against the flow and into the city.

★ ★ ★

The driver had instructions to deliver the sailors to the authorities in Kota, the old city, near the harbour. At about half past four, the lorry stopped in a rather elegant square of lime-washed buildings with orange tiled roofs and plane trees bounding the four sides. There, the three grabbed their things and hopped down, and the lorry drove off, leaving them standing on the pavement outside a Dutch colonial building that looked like the City Hall.

Inside, Johnny found the Operations Officer’s desk, and they were directed to a room on the third floor. As they ascended the marble staircase, they fought against a tide of people who were hastily descending, arms filled with cartons of files and documents, some of which floated loose, sailing out into the void to be caught by the fans and driven to the floor below. The air was filled with the sound of boots clattering on stairs or timber floors, and the occasional shouts of command and response, underscored by the sound of rapid typing.

Johnny led their way along a corridor to the office of the British Navy representative, in the rear of the block. When he stepped inside, he found a Royal Australian Navy Lieutenant busily sorting documents into cartons. Wisps of smoke rose from a rubbish bin by a desk, and the odour of burnt paper hung in the air.

The Lieutenant looked up, startled. Air-raid sirens began to wind up their eerie wail.

‘Jesus, mate, who are you? And where the hell have you been?’

Johnny said, ‘I’ve brought news of Admiral Spooner and the staff party from Singapore.’

The Lieutenant looked at his visitor’s Reserve stripes for a moment, then stuck his head through a door into the adjacent office. He didn’t seem to have noticed the ratings. Within a moment, a second officer appeared, a senior officer, who perfunctorily ran his eyes over the newcomers, seeming astonished by their heavily weathered and clearly stressed condition. He thrust out his hand. ‘John Collins, Commodore Batavia. Can I get you some water?’

Johnny knew Captain John Collins, Royal Australian Navy, Commodore China Force, was a man of some mana, a reputation built around his sinking of an Italian light cruiser in the Mediterranean. Collins reached for the water carafe now, and began to pour without waiting for Johnny to reply.

Johnny saluted. His ratings, suddenly conscious of their appearance, came to attention and also saluted.

‘Stand easy, gentlemen,’ Collins offered. ‘How can I help?’

‘Sub-Lieutenant Johnny Bull reporting, Royal New Zealand Navy Volunteer Reserve. Commanding ML310, late of Singapore, evacuating a party of thirty-three. Admiral Spooner senior officer on board. I can report the Admiral and others are alive, but I’m afraid the party is at serious risk. We’ve got to get help and organise their recovery, sir.’

The Commodore handed Johnny the glass. Jock and Len stood in the background, listening.

‘I’m sorry? Please. Sit down and repeat what you just told me.’

He indicated a chair. Johnny sat.

While the Commodore poured two more glasses and handed the water to Len and Jock, Johnny gave a brief outline of their experience since leaving Singapore.

Collins pointed to a typewriter. From the direction of the port, sirens heralded another raid.

‘I will need a written report. Make it short. I hope we’re not too late.’

Johnny typed while his interviewer helped to divide up the documents and carried on talking. The local anti-aircraft defences began to open fire. Len sat beside Jock on a bench against the wall, mutely observing the preparations to evacuate. The Commodore’s aide kept tearing pages out of folders and adding them to the rubbish bin.

‘You should know the order went out yesterday to relocate Naval command to Tjilatjap. We expect the Japs to land here at any moment. These air raids are clearly a prelude.’

The rumble of more bombing began. It sounded like the Japs were concentrating on something not very far away, and Johnny banged on, as fast as he could, one finger at a time. The defensive fire intensified.

‘And you might as well know this. I’ve just heard that the ABDA fleet made contact with the Japanese. I have ordered all vessels in my command to withdraw from the Java Sea.’

‘And my report, sir?’

‘I’ll make it my top priority, but our capacity is badly stretched, and I don’t know how quickly or easily anyone would be able to mount a search and rescue.’

‘But sir – excuse me for saying so – there is no search. Only rescue. We know where they are. My men and I, we’d like your permission to accompany the rescue party.’

‘With these men?’ Commodore Collins shook his head. ‘I appreciate your commitment, and your loyalty to your crew, but no. You will report along with other Naval units and extraneous personnel to Naval Command in Tjilatjap, where there are boats evacuating essential personnel.’

Looking at Len and Jock, he added, ‘You’ve all done enough. You’ve obviously had a hell of a time already, and you can’t do more. I will do what I can. Good luck, Commander.’

‘Excuse me, sir!’ Len interjected almost before he himself had realised it. Everybody looked at him. He held out Johnno’s small case. ‘What about these?’

The Commodore took the case. Placing it on a desk, he opened it and pulled out the bundle. He unwrapped it, and forty odd packets of notes fell out. It was immediately obvious that they had suffered considerable water damage. Most of the writing was illegible.

Len was stunned. He had considered the possibility, more than once given the weather they had endured, yet to see it left him devastated. He felt he had failed the men left behind, and he raged internally. Jesus Christ! He couldn’t believe it. He’d managed to keep his fucking cigarettes dry, hadn’t he?

The Commodore swept up the damaged mail and passed it to his aide.

‘See if there’s anything worth sending with the dispatch.’

He pushed the case back towards Len, handed a note to Johnny and held out his hand. Johnny stood up and shook it, then saluted as Commodore Collins left the room.

The note was a transport order. Nobody spoke as Johnny returned to the typewriter. He poked at the keys even faster, and finished his report in a few minutes. He stripped it out of the machine and handed it to the RAN Lieutenant.

‘We’d better go,’ he said to Len and Jock.

‘If you follow the river from the other side of the square towards the sea, you will come to some very large East India Company warehouses,’ the Lieutenant said. ‘They are being used as barracks for Dutch troops, and billets for other nationalities. If you go there, you will find transport. Everything is going east, to Bandung, so you shouldn’t have any trouble. We are in the process of relocating our Command Headquarters there.’

‘How far away is Tjilatjap?’

‘About 200 miles, I think. Bandung is about halfway. I’d offer you a ride, but the car is already crammed with material, and, if you have men with you, well … you have the chit, and it should take you all the way.’

He shook hands with Johnny. They headed back down the steps, with the human tide this time. Out in the square, Len had to shield his eyes against the sun. The noise of bombing at the port was disconcertingly close, but as veterans of the Singapore experience, the men could tell how far away the bombs were landing and they knew that if you couldn’t hear them, well, it was probably too late anyway. The three walked over to another side of the square and bought hot steaming glasses of jasmine tea from a vendor. They sat under a tree, enjoying its shade. They sipped bravely for several minutes, watching Military Police direct the tide of traffic sweeping in and out of the square, then they headed off in the direction of the barracks. The sound of bombing abated, and soon the sirens announced ceasefire.

★ ★ ★

If the seventeenth-century Dutch architecture or the distinctive ‘VOC’ acronym for the Dutch East Indies Company under the gable hadn’t distinguished the building, the flow of military vehicles most certainly did. All military traffic was heading into or out of the building, an enormous whitewashed entrepôt stretching along the canal-side, an impressive demonstration of Dutch commercial power that now served as a barracks. When the three sailors arrived at the guard post and presented their transport order, the Dutch soldier waved them in without even looking at the document, so preoccupied was he with the contents of a vehicle exiting. They entered the inner courtyard of the 300-year-old trading warehouse, into an area large enough for several teams of oxen to manoeuvre in at once. Now, instead of wagons laden with bales of rice, tea and coffee, the yard was filled with military vehicles and sections of armed men. A motorcycle messenger narrowly missed them as he sped off. The air was blue with exhaust fumes and the sound of idling vehicles. To the accompaniment of whistles and horns, several lorries laden with native troops of the Dutch East Indies Army trundled through the courtyard and away. The thump of explosions coming from the air raid on Tanjong Priok, now barely a mile away, reminded people why they were in a hurry.

The three sailors took stock. Small groups of military personnel stood around despite the hurry, everybody talking animatedly. Johnny, Jock and Len identified a wide variety of uniforms, much of their elements improvised. The only identifiable uniform they themselves had left were their caps. Apart from the native troops, there was a variety of nationalities here. There were Dutch soldiers and sailors, and large numbers of Royal Naval men, some of whom they recognised as survivors from Malaya and the many vessels now lying sunk off Sumatra. There were a number in slouch hats, some of the three-and-a-half thousand members of Blackforce, sent from Australia to help in the defence of Java. There were the ubiquitous British Tommys, anti-aircraftmen in oversized shorts, and, propped against the side of a jeep, a cigar in the corner of his mouth and a Browning service pistol on his hip, an unfamiliar but unmistakeable American. They learned later that the Americans here were men of the Texas National Guard, part of Blackforce under Australian Brigadier Blackburn’s command.

‘Over there, sir.’ Len pointed across the courtyard, where one of several signs showed a silhouette of a lorry.

‘Yes, come on,’ said Johnny, leading the way. ‘That looks like a good bet.’

They dodged across the courtyard and into the building opposite.

‘Stay with me, you two,’ Johnny said. ‘If we want three passes, there will need to be three of us.’

There was a certain amount of discussion between Johnny and the officer dispensing passes. Johnny had at first been issued with a priority pass for himself, being of commissioned rank. He left in the end with three, and they emerged from the building with clear instructions.

‘Johnny Bull!’

They looked around.

‘Johnny!’

A figure emerged from the melee. They all recognised the Kiwi commander of HDML1063.

‘My God,’ Johnny greeted him. ‘Innes! You made it!’

‘You too.’ Innes looked at his compatriots. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘It’s a long story. Where are you going?’

‘The boat’s at Tanjung Priok. We’ve been told to evacuate ahead of any Jap landings.’

‘I know. We’ve been told to make our way to Tjilatjap by road.’

Innes echoed the Commodore’s advice.

‘That’s where we’re headed, but listen, mate, you’re better off going by road at this stage. Nobody knows where the Japs are, and we have to negotiate the Sunda Strait yet. We’ll see you in Tjilatjap. I have to go.’

Off he went.

The men scanned the yard and identified their marshalling point as ‘British Military, Army and Navy’. There they joined a group of mostly British seamen, but there were Australians too, soldiers and sailors of various ranks milling about in a semi-agitated state. The tenor of the conversation seemed to be about the allocation of resources, how long certain individuals had been waiting, and how much traffic had departed without any of them being included. Johnny deduced that someone somewhere was trying to organise transport for the whole body, but that they would be moved according to priorities. For Reservists that did not augur well.

‘Bugger that,’ declared Jock, as the three discussed their options. ‘I say we find our own transport and make our own way to … whatever that damned place is called.’

Johnny looked at Len, who stood waiting for instructions. If anything, he too was for continuing.

‘Well, we won’t get away before most of these people,’ Johnny said. ‘They’ve been here longer, and are regular Navy. Let’s see what we can do for ourselves meantime.’

Len thought about the Singapore dollars still stuffed into his pockets. ‘We could hire a vehicle.’

‘Now there’s an idea, Lenny,’ Jock said.

They debated the option some more, but finally decided they had to put their trust in the hands of others. Johnny spoke to one of the Military Police and was told a likely departure time for any available transport was several hours away. With that in mind, the three were directed to an adjacent barracks, where they found stretcher beds and mattresses. They flung themselves down and, as the evening began to give way to night, descended rapidly into another deep, exhausted sleep.

★ ★ ★

The following morning, while they and others among the waiting men were lined up for an issue of tea and bread, a car arrived and took Johnny away to the Commodore’s office. It happened so fast they barely had time to arrange to meet later.

‘Don’t leave town without me, gentlemen,’ Johnny told them. ‘I’ll be back.’

‘And that was the last they saw of him,’ intoned Jock, in his best impersonation of Orson Welles, as they watched Johnny’s car follow a lorry out the barracks’ gate.

‘Let’s hope not.’

For most of that day, they felt idle. The constant stream of men into the barracks somehow seemed to exceed the transport’s capacity to take them away. They queued endlessly – for meals, for the latrines, for news or any sign of movement – and they got nowhere. Across the city the bombing continued, and more than once they had to dive for cover to avoid attracting the attention of marauding enemy aircraft. It wasn’t until the end of the day that the sailors were told they would be put on transport the following day, and stood down.

By evening they were both anxious for Johnny to return. Neither Len nor Jock welcomed the idea that they would be forced to carry on without him. Tacitly avoiding the subject, they were talking instead about the route across Java that would take them to Tjilatjap, when he reappeared: a car had dropped him off outside the mess. The three took tins of steaming coffee back to their barracks, where they sat and talked. At first Johnny baulked at their entreaties for him to tell his story, but they convinced him that, even if they were captured, nobody would suspect the two sailors of being privy to any military secrets.

‘They flew me to Surabaya, to brief the Americans on the Admiral and the situation with the crew,’ Johnny told them. ‘It wasn’t easy. There’s a lot going on. They’re going to try and send a sub.’

‘I hope they make it in time,’ said Jock.

‘Well … there’s more.’ Johnny looked at his two companions intently, certain that what he was about to tell them would not demoralise them, now that he knew them well.

‘The ABDA fleet’s been destroyed, and the Admiral is dead. It was a disaster.’

He went on.

‘Both Dutch cruisers have been sunk. Houston and Perth may have escaped, but the destroyer escorts have been sunk or have scattered. Exeter is damaged and heading to the Sunda Strait under escort.’

‘Good luck to her,’ muttered Len.

Exeter had special meaning to the Kiwis. Together with Ajax and the New Zealand light cruiser Achilles, she had brought about the destruction of the German pocket battleship Graf Spee in the first Naval action of the war.

For a while they talked, discussing the timetable that would be needed to effect a rescue of the men they had left behind, and the likelihood of success. Eventually, they sat in silence.

‘The Commodore has ordered everybody to be out of Batavia by midday tomorrow,’ Johnny said. ‘Judging from what I saw coming in just now, there don’t seem to be too many men left to move anyway.’

After a bowl of chicken soup, garnished with a couple of slivers of bamboo shoot and some grains of rice, they stretched out again on the mattresses and fell into a gloriously deep sleep for a second night. All around them lay scattered piles of personal effects, uniform items and even weapons: evidence of the haste with which people had departed.

★ ★ ★

Len was the first to waken. It was the silence that had disturbed him, as surely as a loud noise would have. No engine noise, no voices. He shook Johnny. ‘Wake up, sir. There’s something going on.’ Then he shook Jock awake too. It took a while. The three sat up, listening. From the direction of Bantam Bay came the sound of heavy artillery. The invasion had begun. The Japanese were landing. It was midnight on 28 February.

‘Jesus. There’s something going on all right,’ Johnny said. ‘Get up. Quickly.’

They grabbed their meagre possessions – Len’s little case, the food and their bundled clothing – and raced downstairs, where they found the barracks virtually deserted: it appeared that, while they had been sleeping, most of the others had gone. The place was now in darkness, and the electricity was apparently no longer functioning. Instead, a huge pile of furniture and documents blazed in the middle of the courtyard, the illuminations and the shadows dancing in grotesque harmony on the surrounding walls. Individuals dashed fleetingly through the smoke. Several vehicles stood with their doors flung open, apparently abandoned. A man came out of the shadows. He threw something into the back of one of the cars, then climbed in and started the engine. In an instant, Jock leapt out and ran up behind the vehicle, holding his revolver out in front of him. He flung open the passenger door and climbed in beside the startled driver. In a moment he was waving to Johnny and Len, who needed no encouragement, and ran to the car.

‘Get in,’ Jock said. ‘We may have solved our transport problem.’ To the driver, he waved his gun and said, ‘Get going, laddie. We’re not planning to stay here, are we?’

The driver laughed and, after a cursory glance at his new passengers, graunched the vehicle into gear and headed out of the now unguarded gate. He wore the uniform of a regular Dutch Army Captain. Len caught him trying to focus on Johnny’s uniform rank and insignia in the gloom out of the corner of his eye.

Johnny, in turn, tried to get the measure of their benefactor. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Lieutenant Johnny Bull, Royal New Zealand Navy Volunteer Reserve.’

The Dutchman crashed another gear and looked squarely at Johnny. ‘Nieuw Zeeland? Zeeland is where I am from! Ha, ha.’

They sped through empty and ill-lit streets where acronyms such as BTI, PNI or PKI and other slogans could be seen freshly daubed on walls. Johnny asked, ‘What’s the stuff on the walls, my friend? Signals to the Japanese?’

‘Ja, ja. Signals, all right. PKI are Communists. PNI are Nationalists. BTI is a front for the peasants. Plenty of people can’t wait to welcome the Japanese.’

Within an hour they had caught up with the tail end of the evacuation and the convoy that had abandoned them. They had come up against two streams of traffic: one vehicular and largely military, and the other a stream of refugees on foot. Hundreds of people had no choice but to walk – clerks, shopkeepers, maids, houseboys, nannies – pushing handcarts or dragging rickshaws, all piled with life’s necessities, which included chickens in cages and the odd child. The people’s clothes, the landscape and the clouds and the gorgeous light they reflected suggested a gaiety that Len found incongruous and discomforting. The Dutch colonials themselves drove, as did some of the wealthier Javanese merchants, their cars interspersed with requisitioned buses and trucks filled with men and material. As the road took a long right-hand turn and the traffic stretched out in front of them, they could see in the distance not just the lorries but the Royal Navy uniforms of the men with whom they had been scheduled to travel. Len and Jock did not want to draw attention to their own happy situation, and sat well back in their seats. Both columns were moving at the same pedestrian pace.

Eventually the foot traffic fell behind, and they were able to make better progress. They came into increasingly hilly and mountainous country, and the road began to pass through vast paddies where the hillsides had been landscaped into the complex irrigated terracing necessary to grow rice. Water lay where paddies had been harvested, reflecting the sky above, as if a hole had been torn in the landscape.

With Johnny’s consent Jock broke out the last of the rations, and they shared it with their driver. As they ate he spoke. ‘You. Nieuw Zeelander. What are you doing here in Asia at all?’

Since the other two were chewing and had their mouths full, Jock offered an explanation. ‘Len’s a New Zealander too. They came to help me.’

‘Ha, ha, ha.’ The Dutchman was genuine. He caught the Scotsman’s eye in the rear vision mirror.

‘You’re Scottish? Some Nieuw Zeelanders helping a Scotsman and the English stop Japanese from occupying a Dutch country somewhere in the crazy East? Hello?’ He shook his head. ‘You know, we Dutch have been pillaging the East Indies and their people for over 300 years, and we wonder why they hate us.’ He crashed a gear. ‘Staying here is madness. We’ve had our chance. Now, it’s their turn.’

‘You think this is the end of Dutch control here?’ Jock asked him.

‘Isn’t it the end of British control in Malaya? Here, I’m not sure we ever had “control”. Ninety percent of the East Indies Army are native units, and they will not support us. Most of them are looking forward to the Japanese as liberators. Ha, ha, ha!’ He reached into the door adjacent to his seat and pulled out a bottle of what looked like water. Taking a long draught, he handed it to Johnny, who smelled it before taking a tentative draught himself and handing it back to Jock. It was gin, a good over-proof Dutch genever, and it set their stomachs on fire. Len wiped the alcohol from his stinging lips, and settled a little further into his seat.

‘The two regiments – mine included – which were defending Batavia have been ordered to fall back around Bandung, and regroup in support of Southern Command. But I will tell you, it is simple. We do not have the numbers. We will put up a fight, for the sake of our reputation or some such … bullshit! But in the end, against the Japanese we will lose. It’s only a matter of time. Hello.’

Len began to realise that Java and its people offered them no security. The car bounced on over the joins in the concrete road. There was something smoking ahead.

‘I’m sorry we are unable to help,’ said Johnny, graciously.

‘Ha, ha! I don’t blame you, my friend.’ He slapped Johnny on the knee. ‘If I had a choice I would sail to Australia or Nieuw Zeeland too. And buy a farm; why not? But – ha, ha – I think instead I will end up rotting here dead in the jungle.’

His gin-fuelled melancholy was unsettling, but they were distracted from the conversation by the lorries in front, and soon they were forced to thread their way through a group of vehicles that had been attacked by Japanese aircraft earlier in the morning. Several native Military Police were waving them on vigorously and, by the roadside, medics still attended wounded and dying. A cluster of covered corpses lay to one side. The enemy had evidently been in control of the air. Once more they would have to keep their eyes open and their wits about them.

By late afternoon they had made good progress. They were nearing Bandung and knew their benefactor was going no further. Tjilatjap was still the same distance to travel again, but none of them had any doubt that they would engineer a ride, and they still had the Commodore’s transport order. There was no shortage of traffic heading the right way, and virtually all of it was military.

As they reached what looked like the outskirts of Bandung, they came to a roadblock and had to wait as the lorries in front of them were stopped, their identities checked and their interiors inspected, before they were waved on. The fact that they were a small car attracted the native soldiers, and the Dutch officer in charge waved them to the roadside.

Their driver got out and got into a fierce conversation with his fellow officer. To the surprise of the anxious sailors, the two Dutchmen burst into laughter, before their driver returned to address them. ‘Here we go again, ja? I am instructed to rejoin my unit at a base higher in the mountains. It’s not so far. We are supposed to wait there for further instructions: basically on how to surrender, I think. Ha, ha.’

The three reached for their belongings and made as if to get out of the car.

‘Ah, no, no no,’ their Dutch friend exhorted. ‘No, no. I will take you to the station. My friend tells me they are loading a troop train for Tjilatjap. You will be fine. Lekke, eh?’

‘Lekke?’ responded Johnny. ‘Good? Yes!’

‘Carpe diem,’ added Jock. ‘My mother taught me that.’

The engine started. Johnny looked anxiously back at the Dutchman, who burst out laughing again and grabbed his genever from the pocket in the car door. With a wave of his arm, the officer at the roadblock let them pass.

‘Time to go,’ the driver called gaily, driving off in the direction that his fellow Dutchman had indicated.

★ ★ ★

In the end, they didn’t get much closer to the station before the vehicle was stopped again. After a final round of genever and much back-slapping, they parted company with their saviour, who drove off with the road transport heading for the interior and the mountains, where the Dutch military command had relocated. The three sailors found their own way for the last mile, joining a stream of evacuees dressed in the uniforms of various Allied units, heading for the station. By the time they got there, they were drenched in sweat and hungry. Nationalist PNI signs decorated the walls. The station was loosely channelled turmoil, yet Johnny somehow found his way through the melee to seek out the train’s controller and present the ABDA transport order. The freshly printed document from the freshly minted authority impressed the man; the Commodore’s signature secured all three of them seats together in a second-class carriage.

As they made their way towards their platform, they agreed to separate and scrounge some food, paid for with some of Len’s dollars. When they met again they had bananas, skewers of chicken and packages of boiled rice, each neatly wrapped in banana leaf, purchased from vendors who had been doing good business with the busy traffic. They forced their way through the crowd to reach their carriage, squeezing past soldiers in the corridor to reach their seats, but found others already sitting there. Two were young midshipmen of the Royal Navy, survivors of HMS Jupiter, and the other an odd character, a Javanese in a uniform of the Dutch military but devoid of rank. With a bit of negotiation and the enticement of shared food, they found themselves seated, gnawing at chicken or shovelling a wad of rice into their mouths by hand: as they had seen the locals do, but without the skill.

They had only been seated for a few moments when the train gave a sudden movement, accompanied by the crash and jangle of carriages taking up the tension, and the whole lot started to move. Graunching and squealing, and slowly at first, the train gained momentum, though it took some time before they reached any sort of speed. The smell of the coal smoke took Len straight back to England. For a while all six men, squeezed into four seats, sat in silence and gazed out the window. Glistening paddies stretched across the valley floor, the shoots of the new season’s rice harvest beginning to poke through the water.

Johnny broke the silence first. ‘When did you leave Singapore?’ he asked of the other young Naval officers.

‘The 11th of February. On the last convoy.’

‘Not quite,’ said Jock.

‘What do you think we’ll find in Tjilatjap, sir?’ continued the young officer.

Len thought it a silly question as soon as it had been asked. Who could tell? It was another evacuation. Anything could happen: something Johnny confirmed now.

‘I’ve no idea, but we’ll have to stay sharp if we don’t want to be left behind.’

The silence returned. All but the Dutch soldier sat considering their Singapore experience.

★ ★ ★

The lurching of the train woke Len to a spice-laden smell: smoke from the Javanese’s kretek. The local cigarettes were made of a delicious blend of tobacco and clove that Len found particularly seductive, as he no longer had any cigarettes himself.

A hand reached across the gloom and offered the packet. A match followed. Len drew deeply of the sweet-flavoured smoke, and listened as the tobacco within crackled peculiarly. He tasted sweetness again on his lips, and nodded towards his benefactor in gratitude. He handed back the packet.

‘No, no. Keep them. I have more.’ The Javanese held up his hand in refusal.

‘Good on you, mate. I appreciate it. You speak good English.’

‘I went to a missionary school. I chose English over German.’

As Len smoked, he tried to capture some of the detail of his companion in the poor light. ‘What happened?’ he asked, gesturing at the man’s clothes. ‘A uniform without insignia?’

The Javanese gave no indication he had heard, so Len let the question sit. They finished their cigarettes.

‘I am, or have been, a member of the Dutch East Indies Army,’ the man said. ‘A captain of infantry in the KNIL. They offered us the chance to go home to our families. It came at a cost.’

Len was taken aback.

Now Johnny spoke – he must have been listening.

‘Sorry. You say you were reduced to the ranks? Dismissed?’

‘Yes.’

The Javanese lit another kretek.

‘When I took the chance to go home and protect my family, I was paraded, stripped of my rank and discharged for dishonouring the company. It was a trick, to deter others, prove native leadership as unreliable and strengthen Dutch control. In front of my men they made me nothing again.’

The man was staring out the train window into the darkness as he said it, looking backwards or forwards; it was difficult to be sure. Len thought of Nicolaas and his ambivalence about the end of Dutch rule. He began to appreciate the depth of feeling that might exist in the native population, and wonder if Haami Parata might ever find himself in such circumstances.

The train rattled on, lurching where every rail was joined and squealing around corners. It slowed as it began what turned out to be a long incline during which the line appeared to be travelling across the face of steep country. Occasionally, in the distance through the dark and the foliage, Len thought he could see headlights: the dull lights of blacked-out vehicles wending their way across the mountainside on the other side of the valley. It stood to reason that the motorised column they had left at Bandung was continuing to Tjilatjap.

‘How did you get on the train?’ Johnny asked the man.

‘I have PNI friends in the railway.’

‘And Tjilatjap?’

‘My family live near Tjilatjap.’ The Javanese shifted his posture and leaned in closer. ‘My question is, who are you? You are Royal Navy? British?’

Johnny produced his transport pass and handed it over. ‘Royal New Zealand Navy. Kiwis!’

‘Ah, Kiwis. Nieuw Zeeland, yes?’

‘And a Scot!’ Jock was now awake.

‘What are you doing here, Kiwis?’

‘Trying to leave.’

The kreteks were passed around and the conversation carried on. They all listened quietly when the Javanese talked more about his recent experience.

‘If I was Ambonese or Moluccan, for example – Christian – my experience would have been different. But I am Javanese and a Muslim.’ He paused.

‘So?’

‘So, Javanese are oxen, while Ambonese and Moluccans ride in the cart. They get the privileges while we remain in harness.’

Len watched the man keenly. He was angry, his thoughts bringing him to silence for a moment.

‘You are lucky,’ he said, ‘that I am not Japanese, and you are not Dutch.’

Johnny seized the moment. ‘Where are the Japanese, and where are the Dutch?’

‘The Japanese have landed west of Batavia, at Bantam Bay, where my company was fighting yesterday. They have also landed in the east, somewhere near Surabaya. Their aircraft attacked this road today, so they must have captured airfields. The Dutch are fleeing into their holes.’

‘How do you know this? There are no reports of Japanese activity to the south?’

‘My friends at the railway station told me. And no. Tjilatjap was still an open port when we left Bandung.’

They sat in silence, drawing thoughtfully on their kreteks and letting the smoke slowly escape from their lips. It filled the carriage before being sucked out the open window. When the cigarette fell from the grasp of their Javanese friend and hit the floor in a shower of sparks, it became evident that he had fallen asleep. Len reached out with his foot and ground the butt under his foot, before hitching up the collar of his tunic and folding his arms across his chest.

The whole thing was again a matter of time, set to the constant beat of the wheels over the tracks – ta-tum ta-tum, ta-tum ta-tum, ta-tum ta-tum. He looked across to the two Englishmen, sleeping resolutely through everything. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to sleep.

As the train breasted the summit of the line and began its descent, the carriages changed their attitude with much banging and lurching. The English sailors hardly stirred. The first flicker of daylight reflected on the underside of clouds across the horizon. Then they left the tree-line of the jungle and, as they began to meander down out of the mountains, the landscape transformed once more, back into terracing again. The glimmer of the new dawn spread across the water in the paddy fields, while below they could see the tail lights of a convoy wending its way down off the mountain and across the plain towards the coast. It was fifty more miles to their last chance for freedom.

12

Tjilatjap

By the time they had fully descended from the mountains, they were all awake. Through the cool air, they were able to see below several rivers glistening in the early light, meandering across the grey coastal plain before emptying into the sea. Two columns of black smoke rose from near a river mouth to fuse with the heavy grey cloud overhead. When the train reached the coast, it was clear that the plain was substantially a marshland, and as the heat increased the atmosphere turned into a humid, smoke-laden haze that unified everything in a sfumato of sepia. They were heading where the smoke was most concentrated.

The train was grinding slowly through paddy fields and over a road crossing when their Javanese friend stood up, shook hands loosely with his travelling companions and left. They saw him swing down from the train and jump to the ground, and watched as he began to jog along the raised path threading its way through the flooded fields, heading, they supposed, towards his home and his own war.

Len pondered the circumstances of the two men they had encountered recently: a Dutch soldier and a Javanese soldier, both engaged in a battle for identity, one resigned to his fate, the other fighting for change. Then there was Nicolaas – how had he put it – ‘living in two worlds’. Len himself could make a case for that, but would he? If he had to make such a choice, what would it be?

The train entered the outskirts of the town. Tjilatjap was a port on the south coast of Java, occupying a finger of land bound to the west and south by a river estuary and to the east by the sea. Behind the town and on the hills across the river, jungle-clad hills arced out into the sea, creating a wide bay and a secure anchorage for dozens of vessels, large and small. In and out of this fleet moved other vessels. Smoke from the stacks of many of the ships drifted up to co-mingle with a dense cloud of oil-fuelled smoke rising from the port. It was clear the Japanese net was beginning to close on Tjilatjap too. The local populace were largely absent, apparently hiding behind closed doors. Len saw a few, flitting furtively between buildings and houses. Closer to the centre of town, as morning cooking fires joined that of burning buildings, the smoke intensified. So did the traffic.

As the train rolled slowly into the station, men began to jump and make off, while officers began shouting instructions and trying to impose order. With Johnny leading, the three men alighted and forced their way through the growing crowd and out onto the street.

It was 8 a.m., now three nights since they had arrived in Merak. Which made the date March 2nd. How many days was it since they had left Keppel Harbour – seventeen? And here they were again, only marginally ahead of the enemy and facing another evacuation.

‘Déjà vu,’ muttered Jock.

There was a depressing familiarity about the circumstances. It was like coming back to the beginning again, except this time they had no boat. Len thought he recognised others as survivors like them, coming from Singapore. Outside the station he looked around. Apart from the people, a long queue of empty vehicles – trucks, cars, buses, even taxis – stretched back on both sides of the road. Groups of men formed up in loose assembly and began moving off at irregular intervals. Judging by the smoke streaming skyward, the Japanese had delivered several raids already. Len began to thread his way through the mass, with the others following, and in this way the three sailors managed another mile towards the port.

★ ★ ★

They were stopped by a roadblock, a detail of Hussars led by a Sergeant, who told them they should be heading to the beach; that this was the end of the road. This was clear. In front of them, there were vehicles abandoned on the road or pushed into the ditches on either side. All had either been set on fire or had their battery acid emptied over the engine and electrics. It was an eerie scene of destruction, unpeopled and desolate.

‘What if we wanted to go to the port?’

The Sergeant was explaining that this was not possible when a tall, lean figure in a slouch hat came from behind a vehicle, buttoning up his trousers.

‘Gidday, mate. You blokes Kiwis?’

‘Royal New Zealand Navy. Reserve. On our way to Auckland. But Fremantle will do.’

Johnny’s subtle humour was not lost on the Australian Captain. He looked closely at the three men. They stared back at him, all red-rimmed eyes, blistered lips and peeling skin. What they were wearing by way of uniform looked as if it had been on them for weeks, which of course it had.

‘We’re supposed to turn people away,’ the Captain said. ‘The port is under Dutch control, and we’re evacuating from the beach. But there’s a Dutch boat that has been abandoned by the local crew. Bloody Javanese. You can’t trust the bastards. The port authorities told me that the General Verspijk is supposed to be evacuating a number of foreign officials, civilians and people in business out of Java, but the crew buggered off. I promised to help if we could. You’ll have to hurry. Otherwise, you’ll have to head down to the beach.’

He urged them to make a quick decision.

‘Well, do you want to help man this boat? If you do, you’d better leg it. Head for the port and look for the Verspijk.’

‘How far, mate?’ Len asked.

‘See that smoke? That’s it.’

‘Good on you, mate.’ Johnny shook the Australian’s hand. ‘And good luck.’

The three men hastened off in the direction of the smoke.

A sense of security enveloped them when they finally reached the wharves, a familiar domain, in spite of evidence of recent Japanese air raids. Warehouses were damaged or destroyed, rail lines writhed and twisted in the air, and small, half-sunk vessels hung from the wharf. Of the few people who were around, most were Dutch soldiers, pickets of some sort, protecting what was on the wharves from sabotage or theft. One vessel sat at its mooring unmolested it seemed, and they went towards it without challenge for a closer look.

The ship was a well-worn passenger cargo vessel of about 600 tons. It had a black hull and grey topsides, and displayed the livery of the local Dutch shipping company KPM. As the three pondered the possibilities, a Dutch officer emerged from a small warehouse nearby that was still apparently undamaged and came towards them.

‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’

His civility seemed wildly incongruous.

‘We’re looking for the General something or other,’ offered Johnny, continuing to look hard at the vessel.

‘Ah. The General Verspijk? You’re looking at it. Are you part of the new crew?’ he asked, peering closely at their uniform insignia.

‘We hope to be,’ answered Johnny. ‘Is there anybody on board?’

‘Ha, ha. Is there anybody on board?’

Why was it, thought Len, that men often laughed when circum-stances were anything but funny? Was it fear? Resignation? Irony?

The officer suddenly yelled out, shouting loudly in Dutch. After a few moments, a head appeared over the rail of the bridge deck, and answered in a low tone heavy with resignation.

‘Ja, ja, ja.’

‘Your crew has arrived.’

‘Crew?’ Whoever it was peered down at them. ‘You call that a crew? How far am I supposed to get with three men?’

‘Not any men, Kapitan: Nieuw Zeelanders!’

‘Nieuw Zeelanders? Aha. Nieuw ZEE-landers!’

The head disappeared, and the four on the wharf waited a few moments before the captain of the General Verspijk presented himself at the bottom of the gangplank. He offered a hand to Johnny.

‘Oudenaarde. Captain of the Verspijk.’

They shook hands. Captain Oudenaarde hung on to Johnny’s hand and turned it over, giving its calloused hardness a critical appraisal. Oudenaarde himself looked similarly raw and rough-edged, the remaining inch of a Sumatra No 6 jammed in the corner of his mouth. His uniform was care-worn – sand shoes, khaki shorts and singlet. He was a rough diamond, but with a confidence that had been born of ten years commanding coastal vessels around the challenging waters of the Dutch East Indies and northern Australia.

He inclined his head towards the Verspijk.

‘There will be a group coming soon to make up the numbers. British, I think. Then I would be leaving Tjilatjap as soon as possible.’

He turned and walked back up the gangplank onto his ship, indicating that the three sailors should follow.

‘I will show you my ship and you can tell me what you can do. My damned crew left when the first planes attacked. Fled like rats. I only have my engineer and first mate left. Henk! Wim!’ He bellowed the names.

‘Ja, ja, ja.’ These voices, too, sounded resigned. They were followed by the sound of boots on a ladder, then a head emerged from a bulkhead door on the main deck where they stood. It was the first mate.

‘Hello? Crew! Lekke. Brouwer, Henk Brouwer.’

Behind the mate came the engineer, wiping his hands on an oily rag, which he thrust in the pocket of his equally oily overalls before offering a hand to each of the three Kiwis.

‘Wim Honig. Tag.’

‘Honig is our engineer.’ They shook hands with him.

Captain Oudenaarde led the three into the chart room of the Verspijk and offered coffee from a pot sitting on an element. The men grabbed a mug eagerly and sat down on the bench seats. They shovelled spoons full of sugar into their drinks and stirred vigorously. Wim Honig tore bananas from a bunch hanging above the chart table and handed them to each of the sailors. Len and Jock were gratified to see the chart was of the West Australian coast. As they sipped the steaming coffee, Johnny and Captain Oudenaarde discussed what duties the three new arrivals would perform. Because of his rank and his navigational and man management skills, it was decided that Johnny would act as second mate, while Jock and Len would perform watch duties. In the meantime they set about preparing the vessel for sailing, taking stock of fuel, water and food; oiling and greasing moving parts; securing equipment on deck.

The doubt and uncertainty they had felt on arrival at Tjilatjap was now replaced by anticipation – even excitement. But just as Len began to feel comfortable, a generator fired with a bang, and a cloud of black diesel smoke burst from the exhaust overhead. As the generator began chugging away irregularly, another noise began to claim their attention. They all stopped what they were doing. Suddenly in front of them, from low over the hills and barely a mile away, a flight of nine Japanese aircraft roared into view, heading straight for the bay and the three tankers and several dozen vessels, large and small, anchored there. Len instinctively cast around looking for a weapon, but found none. He was forced to watch helplessly as the planes began to attack the ships. Defensive fire rose nevertheless to meet the attack, and it became obvious very quickly that the tankers were the principal targets. As bomb splashes around them rose skyward, other ships began to make smoke, in an effort to confuse the enemy pilots.

The attack was over in a few minutes, but, as the sound of combat abated, a second wave of enemy aircraft arrived, their approach again shielded by the surrounding hills until they were almost upon their prey. One aircraft came straight at the port, all guns blazing. Nobody noticed at first, until bullets began to strike the wharf, shredding parts of the warehousing and forcing men onshore and aboard the Verspijk to throw themselves under cover. Bullets thwacked into the ship’s superstructure, narrowly missing Jock on the bridge deck. When the planes flew off and the smoke and gunfire subsided, the tankers lay at anchor still, apparently unscathed, and the sailors returned to their work with renewed urgency. Several other raids occurred as the day progressed, but smoke from the fires on the wharf perhaps shielded the Verspijk from further notice from the Japanese pilots.

Their work was nearing completion when they heard a commotion from the wharf. Len looked down. A hundred or more civilian evacuees looked up, eager faces who – like him – were looking at the Verspijk and seeing more than a worn and tired steamer. They were seeing hope.

A few were sailors, British and Australian, who had the good fortune to have survived the first Battle of the Java Sea. They boarded the boat as quickly as they could, and over the course of the day other groups arrived, all of them civilians, evacuees from Singapore or Java. They included the Australian Consul General for Batavia, and the General Manager of the Far East bureau of the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, Charles Moses. During the morning, a small convoy of ships from Batavia, escorted by HMAS Yarra, among others, arrived, but were ordered to continue with haste for Fremantle. The Japanese fleet was seeking to blockade any escape route, and time was crucial. By the time Verspijk had received its complement of passengers, the window for a successful escape was infinitesimal.

Among the ship’s company, if it could be called that, was only a handful of trained seamen, but Captain Oudenaarde became a lot more animated when he realised they might make the difference, and that he and his boat might yet escape. As the tempo and noise of activity rose on board, a fresh cigar glowed in the corner of his mouth, and he puffed away ever more energetically. Johnny and a civilian engineer had already been with Wim Honig to inspect the engines and organise the engine room, while a group of civilians, bank officers and insurance clerks, who had been detailed to the stokehold were instructed in the vital science of shovelling coal. Some of them gave the impression of not knowing which end of a shovel to hold, but after some brief, pithy words from Wim Honig, they began to appreciate the importance of the task, and re-addressed their role with studied determination. Jock stayed on the bridge and familiarised himself with elements of the Dutch language relevant to the steering and navigational gear, while Len led a group that worked its way around the vessel, stowing and securing equipment and making it seaworthy.

At 1630 hours on 02 March, the Verspijk slipped its moorings and moved backwards into the stream in a cloud of black coal smoke. Then, with a clanging of telegraph bells, she moved slowly forward to thread her way through the other vessels and rendezvous with the escorts. Johnny was delighted to learn that the Australian corvettes Ballarat and Maryborough were to provide escort: his old friend Glen Cant on Maryborough had obviously escaped the Japanese blockade of the Sunda Strait. Johnny had a signal sent – ‘Bull aboard’ – and received the warming reply ‘Cant believe it’. Further communication ensued about the likelihood of encountering the Japanese, and a course was set to the north-west. If they were to be observed, which was more than likely, even at this late stage of the day, it would give the initial appearance that they were making for Colombo.

★ ★ ★

Conditions were quiet as the little evacuation fleet took to sea, heading into a gentle swell of the Indian Ocean. It was approaching sunset, and orange-bottomed clouds laden with moisture dotted the sky. It was a beautiful scene: one which momentarily purged the mind of all thought of war, reminding Len of home and the evening sky over the Waitakeres.

Settling into their passage, they focussed on their ship, its sea-worthiness and whether its engines would last the long and circuitous route to Western Australia. The three sailors stood together with Captain Oudenaarde on the bridge, watching the smoke from the little ship stream back behind them towards Java and disappear on the horizon. There was enough smoke from the Verspijk’s funnel in the slowly drifting atmosphere to indicate the convoy’s whereabouts for miles around. They looked forward to the night.

The ships of the convoy had barely settled into position when one of the starboard lookouts called out excitedly, ‘Sir! Aircraft, bearing two five zero.’

Captain Oudenaarde and Johnny both raised their binoculars and swung to the north. The seaplane was high enough that any fire from the corvettes fell short, and so they had to allow themselves to be shadowed until darkness forced the plane to eventually turn away. While it seemed inevitable that their position and course had been reported, they continued to sail away from the Java coast north-west for Colombo, before turning towards Fremantle under cover of darkness.

That night, Johnny and Len were on watch together, standing silently in the dull red glow of a solitary bulb on the bridge. Jock and the Captain were resting before their watch, while Brouwer, the first mate, stood at the ship’s wheel. Except for the sound of the sea breaking around them, and the irregular thump of the engines beneath their feet, it was relatively quiet. Men still sat or lay around on the decks, enjoying the cooler night air. Len was smoking a kretek. He let the smoke billow out of his mouth to be swept away in the wind. He thought he could feel some weather arriving. He counted back the days that had passed since Merak. That had been five, six days ago?

They both saw the torpedo at once: a single track of phosphorescence coming straight towards the Verspijk. To Len’s surprise, while he suddenly felt the frozen grip of Hine Nui Te Pō on his neck, everything seemed to slow down. Both he and Johnny knew instinctively that they had no opportunity to avoid it. They made no move to alert others. What was the point of warning everyone that they would, in a split second, experience a fiery, explosive death? He counted the seconds under his breath, grasping the rail with all his strength and tensing every muscle in his body for the impact. One, two … He watched intently, without panic.

Three. Four …

It never came. God knows why. The torpedo went straight under the boat.

‘Jesus,’ Len offered to the heavens.

Now Johnny shouted, ‘Torpedo! Starboard zero nine zero.’

Brouwer immediately swung the wheel ninety degrees to port, calling for more speed, and while the Verspijk slowly turned, diminishing its exposure to another attack, Johnny and Len rushed to the rail, staring intently behind the boat.

‘Can you see anything?’

They scanned the sea.

‘Nothing.’

They heard a dull thud as the torpedo reached the end of its line and exploded harmlessly in open water. Others who had heard the commotion began to crowd the rails. Jock arrived, and Captain Oudenaarde emerged from his sleeping cabin, clapping his cap on his head. A buzz of concern prevailed as they all scanned the seas around them. While the other ships scattered in the darkness, Verspijk built speed and began to blow sparks furiously out into the night. Crews stood at action stations for some time in anticipation, but there was no further attack.

Later, a tropical storm blasted through the little fleet, hurling most of the ill-conditioned passengers off balance and into an abyss of immobilising nausea and stomach purging, but by sunrise conditions had eased. Maryborough’s cluster of charges were still within sight of one another, spread over a few miles of blue Indian Ocean. The civilians on board began to circulate on deck, tempted to think the worst was behind them, but experience suggested to Len that nothing could be taken for granted or left to chance. In his thinking, neither the weather nor the enemy could yet be discounted. He still felt vulnerable. The only weapon he had was the revolver Johnny had given him on Laboe. When a flight of aircraft passed overhead, he was stunned to feel the wehi once more.

Speed was of the essence, but the Verspijk could not provide it. The ship was making barely five knots and continued to send volumes of black coal smoke and soot into the sky, providing a clear indication of their whereabouts. Thus they sailed on throughout the day and into a second night.

In the early morning of 04 March, the ships seemed to be heading into another storm; the horizon glowed brightly in erratic flashes and a sound like a bass drum rolled ominously into their hearing. The flashes were not the white of lightening, however, but the orange of high explosives. And the sound wasn’t thunder; it was the sound of battle at sea, an unmistakable sound to those for whom it was familiar. Every now and then, the sky brightened intensely as the ships that had left Tjilatjap earlier, on 02 March, having sailed into the Japanese blockade, began to be systematically destroyed. The vessels in Verspijk’s convoy immediately scattered, turning away at high speed, or at least as fast as they could, hoping against hope to be beyond the risk of discovery by sunrise. In attempting an impossible defence of its convoy, the corvette Yarra turned and attacked two Japanese light cruisers head-on. It was an unequal action against overwhelming force. The convoy was lost, and brave Yarra sunk with all guns blazing. The Japanese were sufficiently distracted by that encounter that Maryborough and Verspijk avoided detection and sailed on into the night in apparent safety, becoming effectively the last vessels to escape from Java.

Johnny and Captain Oudenaarde now puzzled over the dilemma of how to optimise their speed while conserving their fuel. Len and Jock stood vigilant throughout the day, scanning the sea for any sign of movement that spoke of enemy. If they could continue to avoid contact, they might finally get beyond the enemy’s range, though they were acutely aware that their greatest threat came from submarines. Meanwhile, below them on deck, several hundred passengers continued to seek respite from the heat and humidity, sitting in shadows or crowding the rails to windward trying to gather a little benefit from the breeze.

★ ★ ★

At best, the Verspijk could barely manage ten knots and not for long, and she was soon obliged to throttle back to a speed that ensured her engines didn’t shake apart.

Another storm engulfed them. Heavy rain pelted down and high winds drove hard at the little ships, which rolled and pitched for several hours in the deep swells. At its height the storm was almost cyclonic. Wind wailed through the rigging, and the steamer crashed through waves and plunged into troughs, coming almost to a standstill from time to time, or shuddering violently as her screw came out of the water at the crest of a swell. Len’s emotions swung considerably, and he began to relish the experience, calling on Tāwhiri and Tangaroa both to test his senses. Those below suffered badly, disorientated by the vessel’s motion. Others clung to parts of the ship, struggling to suppress their biliousness, lightning illuminating them hanging grimly onto the ship’s rail. When the storm abated, men lay sodden and exhausted on the deck, contemplating the grim probability of more such days at sea. Eventually, most were revived by the delicious smell of hot coffee. People began to appear from below deck, and in spite of the chaos on the mess deck caused by the storm, those who could lined up at the galley to receive a mug of coffee and a bread roll. When dawn came, Maryborough and Verspijk were still in each other’s company, but the other boats were nowhere to be seen.

★ ★ ★

For three more days the two vessels steamed south. An air of tension continued to prevail, particularly among the officers, who were fully aware of their vulnerability. There were no clues to the enemy’s whereabouts, but of greater concern was their slow progress: they were crucially short of food and water.

At this point Glen Cant was forced to make contact with Verspijk using his Aldis lamp. Len was on the bridge with Johnny and Captain Oudenaarde when the signal from Maryborough flashed.

‘Get those bloody civilians back into the stokehold!’

Len knew what he meant – more speed – but he knew they were crucially short of fuel, too. Nevertheless, Oudenaarde gave his orders.

Below in the stokehold, the clerks, company representatives and government workers threw open the boiler doors and shovelled more coal into them. When the doors slammed shut, they stood back smiling with satisfaction. Their dust-covered faces, streaked with sweat, glowed orange in the dampened light of the flames. Slowly the tempo of the pistons rose, and the ship’s engineer moved between taps and dials, opening some valves and closing others, in order to balance the output of the engines. The triple expansion chambers hissed and blew steam out of worn seals, and the engineer was compelled to oil moving parts constantly, wiping away residue with his ever-present rag. The drive shafts stroked powerfully back and forth, spinning the twin screws a little faster, until the thumping pistons threatened to shift the engines off their mounts. Only then did the engineer wind back the throttle. On the bridge the needle indicating the vessel’s speed moved infinitesimally upwards, and then stopped moving at all. They had gained another three knots. It was all they could dare to maintain. Even at a constant eight knots, they made tortuously slow progress.

Jock found Len leaning over the bridge rail.

‘How are you going, laddie?’

‘I’m looking for the gap in the clouds.’

Jock looked up. There were no clouds.

‘It’s too bloody quiet. Something’s got to give,’ Len added, sweeping his binoculars across the sea once more.

‘Och. Don’t worry yourself. We’re almost there. I can feel it.’

13

Verspijk

For six days Verspijk had been steaming doggedly on, still a long way from home. Its faithful escort Maryborough, on a parallel course – weaving to and fro, sometimes nearer, sometimes further away – maintained vigilance against the possibility of submarines. The aircraft that had tracked their progress daily had disappeared now. But so had the coal, and there was a serious concern about whether there would be enough fuel to last until they reached Australia. Since the cyclone, conditions had become absolutely calm and still: the surface of the sea was flat and reflective, and the atmosphere humid and hazy. The smoke issuing from the steamer, now labouring along at an excruciating five knots, continued to mark their position indelibly in the sky. Even at night, a column of sparks and burning soot flew out of the funnel and could easily be seen from a distance.

The mood on board had shifted as the men, including Len, struggled with the inertia and apprehension that typically filled the void when constant action suddenly ceased. The tension was beginning to consume Len. Surely something was brewing?

He was right. The day seemed quiet enough when suddenly he heard the cry ‘Fire!’ followed by the sound of the Verspijk’s klaxons.

The one thing that sailors fear most, in peacetime and in war, is fire at sea. Len froze. He dropped his glasses and grasped the rail as if intending to tear it from its mounts.

Fuck! Was there no end?

‘Lenny! C’mon, man!’ he heard Jock shout. ‘Get your finger out. The fucking boat’s on fire. Jesus Christ. How the fuck did that happen?’

Len opened his eyes to see Jock disappearing down the ladder in front of him. He slid down the rails so fast his feet never touched the steps, and he almost landed on top of the Scot. There was shouting, and the sound of men running. They hesitated at first, not sure where the fire was, or which way to go, until a singed figure emerged in front of them from the galley. They elbowed him out of the way and leapt inside.

The place was filled with suffocatingly thick smoke, billowing up from the stovetop, which was on fire. The air was acrid with the smell of burning fat, and flames were disappearing up the flue overhead. An Australian steward, who had volunteered to cook on the voyage, was beating at the flames with his apron, with little effect. Jock grabbed an asbestos blanket from a wall container beside the door and threw it over the stovetop. The gas taps were still on, so Len crouched under the smoke to avoid the heat and turned them off one by one. The stovetop was still blazing, and the blanket did not cover it all, so Jock grabbed a drum labelled ‘flour’, and threw the contents over the flames; this immediately dampened them. Someone from outside the galley hurled a bucket of water over the rest, splashing gobs of hot fat over the men inside and the walls. Now, although it still smoked heavily, the stove was no longer on fire. The flue, instead, was burning, and the flames that shot up it threatened to spread the fire to much less accessible places. Len grabbed the fire blanket from the stovetop. Wrapping it into a ball, he stuffed the wad of asbestos up the flue. It was too small, and the heat forced Len to snatch his hands away. The fire began to intensify. He quickly shook out the blanket and folded it in two.

‘Grab this, mate,’ he told Jock. ‘Hold it up under the flue.’

Jock understood immediately, and together they lifted the fire blanket up and over the bottom of the flue. Starved of oxygen, within seconds the flames inside suffocated and died. The men held the blanket there until they judged it safe to remove. Foul black grease ran back down the flue and began dripping onto the stove below, where it bubbled, hissed and eventually settled. Dense black smoke hung thick and heavy in the air. Len, Jock and the steward struggled to breathe, and coughed uncontrollably until Len threw open the hatch on the other side of the galley. The breeze that now blew through the space quickly cleared the smoke, and they were able to take stock.

Johnny appeared, with Captain Oudenaarde. They found the three men covered in soot and glistening with sweat, lumps of black fat clinging to their clothing.

‘Are you three all right?’ asked Johnny. ‘What happened?’

‘No idea, sir,’ answered Jock, turning to look at the cook.

‘I’m sorry mate,’ the steward offered. ‘I was told to collect all the fat off this meat. I must have fallen asleep. It’s so bloody hot in here.’

At first, this made no sense, but then Captain Oudenaarde spoke. ‘Ja, he’s right. We are so short of fuel I had anything wooden – furniture, fittings – stripped from the cabins to fuel the boilers. I told this man to render the fat off these carcasses, to help things burn.’

The Verspijk still had meat in its freezers: several sides of lamb snatched from Tjilatjap prior to the escape. It made vague sense. Jock started laughing. The Dutchmen didn’t really understand this, but Len did, and for his own part he shook his head in disbelief. For days they had survived on tinned meat alone. Now they had so much of the real stuff they were burning it to fuel the vessel.

‘It might have been better to have thrown the carcasses straight into the boilers,’ Jock said.

‘You may be right,’ Johnny said. ‘Engineer Honig and I will check the flue linings. We don’t want any more surprises. You boys tidy up and get back on watch. There’s very little night left.’

Johnny reached out to the trays on the stovetop and plucked a morsel of meat from the smoking mess. His ratings did the same, before leaving the galley. As they did so, a desultory cheer arose from the men who had come out on deck at the first alarm to see what was going on. Jock seized the moment and cheered too, waving regally to the group, but when Len opened his mouth to join in, his throat was too dry to speak. Instead, he stuck the meat in his mouth and began to chew. It tasted unbelievably good.

When he woke the next morning, the sun was well up. He took a long time to get out of his hammock, instead gathering his thoughts and letting the ship’s movements rock him gently back and forth. Before long he began to sense that, again, something had shifted. Whatever this new state of affairs was, it was entirely unfamiliar. The air was cool. And fresh.

He swung his legs over the hammock’s side and jumped to the floor. Through the open porthole he could hear men talking – no, shouting. Loudly. The breeze was blowing their words away, but there was something about the volume and the tenor of the voices that alerted him. He roused Jock, who was swinging away in an adjacent hammock, oblivious to all sound and movement.

‘Come on, mate. Get up. There’s something going on.’

Jock groaned: a groan of the exhausted. ‘Fuck off.’

‘No. Get up. C’mon.’

Before Jock had begun to swing his feet over the side of his hammock, Len had left his own. He found virtually the entire complement of passengers lined along the port rail, and elbowed his way between some of them to look out, following their gaze.

He saw nothing, but began to recognise the possibility.

‘What is it? Not land? Is it land?’

‘Yeah, mate. Can’t ya smell it?’ someone said.

Len followed the prompt, and breathed deeply through his nose. No, he thought, I can’t bloody smell it.

‘What am I supposed to be smelling? My nostrils are still full of smoke.’

‘Bloody eucalyptus, mate. Gum trees. Aw-fuckin’-stralia.’

Len tried again. With each deep effort, the odour of fat and smoke diminished, but he still couldn’t smell eucalyptus.

A dishevelled Jock squeezed in beside him. ‘What are they on about, Lenny? I can’t see anything. Can you?’

‘No, I can’t. The Aussies say they can smell eucalyptus, but I can’t smell anything.’

‘What the hell is eucalyptus?’

‘Gum trees, mate. Can’t ya smell it?’ the same Australian sailor interjected.

It was Jock’s turn to breathe deeply through his nose. He muttered to himself between breaths. It was clear he couldn’t smell anything either. He sniffed, hoicked and spat a soot-laden gob over the side.

From across the water, the Maryborough rent the air with three long blasts of her ship’s horn. When the Verspijk answered with three long blasts, the whole ship’s company, the majority of whom were now up on deck, let out a huge shout, and set about congratulating one another.

When Len and Jock turned to make their way back to their cabin, they found Johnny walking towards them. He beamed.

Len spoke first. ‘Is it true?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Johnny told them. ‘We had a signal from Glen Cant on Maryborough, and he confirms it. We are west of somewhere called the Pilbara, and only two days sailing from Fremantle. It’s almost over. We’re nearly there.’

The three grasped each other around the shoulders, and briefly their heads came together. Their brows touched, and Len had to employ all his self-control to stifle the emotion of the moment.

‘Let’s get on with it then,’ Johnny said. ‘Not long to go.’

Johnny climbed the ladder to the bridge, and Jock trotted off towards the heads.

Len turned back to look once more towards the east, and could see nothing, but something on the superstructure did catch his eye. He took a closer look. Around the sill of a porthole was a rust-coloured film. He reached out and ran his finger along the sill, and then looked at the residue. He thought it should have been soot from the funnel or the generator exhaust, but it wasn’t black. It was red. Underneath, the paintwork was in good condition. He looked out to sea again, towards the east, from where the prevailing breeze was coming – a breeze that brought with it the unmistakable rust-red dust of the ancient continent.

Aw-fuckin’-stralia.

Only then did Len raise a smile and allow himself to think that, just maybe, the end was indeed in sight.

★ ★ ★

They arrived in Fremantle at midnight on 10 March, eight days after leaving Tjilatjap. Both vessels sailed through the open submarine boom and navigated their way slowly into the docks. The port was a lot busier than Len remembered it. Nearly two years had passed since Tim, he and the others had been here. Today there were several US Navy ships and submarines evident, as well as vessels from the Royal Navy, the Dutch Navy and the RAN. Scattered among them were a host of other vessels that had come from Java like themselves: a ragtag group of minesweepers, corvettes, coastal traders and small boats of varying shapes and sizes. Maryborough was directed to the naval dock, while Verspijk was obliged to wait before space was found for her on what had served as the passenger terminal before the war. Then, Australian officials boarded the Verspijk and began to process the personnel on board. Servicemen lined up and were placed on a roll, but the civilians were another matter. Some regarded themselves as too important for the process, and attempted to pre-empt it by heading down the gangway laden with their personal possessions. Len was watching from the bridge when a group that included the Consul General from Batavia and his small party were apprehended. One minor official in the group felt particularly aggrieved by his treatment. When it was pointed out that this was wartime: there were issues of infiltration by enemy sympathisers, and proper identification was essential, he became almost apoplectic. Len heard the interaction.

‘Don’t you know who we are?’ the passenger demanded.

‘That’s exactly what we’re trying to ascertain, sir,’ the immigration official replied testily, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

Then someone recognised Charles Moses, the Director of the ABC East, still covered in soot and grime from his service in the stokehold, and things calmed down. The group’s baggage was searched, yielding a variety of objects, including small arms, before they were allowed to go ashore.

Len, Jock and the rest of the scratch crew who were left on board were suddenly conscious of the silence. Gone was the thump of the engines and the all-pervading sound of the wind and sea; instead, they were enveloped by an overwhelming sense of relief and exhaustion. While shore authorities and Navy staff inspected the vessel, they were allowed to rest, and immediately fell into an unfamiliar, fathomless sleep.

★ ★ ★

The following morning Johnny sought out Jock and Len. ‘I have instructions to report to Commodore Collins,’ he told them.

‘Collins?’ asked Jock. ‘The same bloke from Java?’

‘That’s right. He got away – by air, I think. You two stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ll try and organise something.’

Clapping his cap on his head, off Johnny went, down the gangplank and towards the dockyard gates, satchel in hand. For a while, Len and Jock sat topsides, in the shade, looking to the land and enjoying the absence of humidity. There was plenty of activity on the wharf below.

A waft of cigar smoke indicated the Captain had woken. They joined him and his two officers on the bridge and shared a pot of coffee. But as the day progressed their idleness began to nag.

‘Fuck this,’ Jock said. ‘I could kill for a beer. Come on, Lenny, grab your handbag. There’s got to be a bar around somewhere. This is a port, isn’t it?’ He clapped his cap on and marched down the gangplank, with his steely eyes fixed on the dockyard gates.

Len hesitated for only a moment before following. He knew exactly where there was a bar. The two marched purposefully through the gates, saluting grandly before anybody thought to challenge them.

Len steered Jock towards a side street. ‘Down here, mate.’

Jock was impressed. Len hadn’t told him that he’d been here before. The two went down the street a hundred yards, and there it was. The sign was still above the door. Jock looked up and read it to Len: ‘No blacks allowed’.

‘You’d better watch yourself then, laddie. You’re looking pretty damned black to me.’ His own face had peeled badly, and was almost entirely a vivid pink. ‘C’mon, I’ll buy you the first one.’ And he barrelled on into the pub.

Strangely, it was not busy, and so they quickly found themselves at the bar. Jock threw his cap down on the bar in a gesture designed to attract attention. The barman looked down his bar at the newcomers, turned away and continued talking. Len began to think that maybe his colour was an issue, but then an older woman, perhaps the barman’s wife – or maybe he was the publican – appeared in front of them.

‘Ya better hurry, boys,’ she said. ‘There’s only a few minutes before curfew.’

‘Curfew. Christ, are we under attack already?’ Len was confused.

‘You blokes straight off a boat, are ya? Ever since the brawls. Been a few fights around here lately, between uniforms. Can’t stop the bastards fighting. So we got a curfew now. What can I get ya boys?’

When the schooners arrived, they were full to overflowing. Jock reached out for one without thinking.

‘Ya haven’t paid for that yet, mate.’

As Jock began to pat his pockets, it dawned on both of them.

Jock voiced the thought for both of them. ‘Shit. We haven’t got any money!’

The men looked helplessly at one another. Len’s Straits dollars weren’t worth anything here.

The barmaid smiled and pushed the glasses across the bar towards them.

‘Don’t worry about it. It’s on me. You look as if you haven’t had a beer for a while.’

They couldn’t believe their luck, and both downed half a glass in the first draught.

‘Jesus, that’s good,’ Len said, and then reflected that he’d better start tidying up his language before he got home.

Jock climbed onto a bar stool. ‘Come here, lassie. You don’t know how good that tastes.’

He flung his arms around the unresisting woman and planted a kiss on both of her cheeks. She shrieked in feigned embarrassment. The barman started towards them.

‘Oi. You bastards. Drink up and get out. Before I call the MPs.’

‘Get off the grass, Frank.’ The barmaid gave him a withering look. ‘It’s more than you’ve managed in the last twelve months, ya useless bastard.’

The two sailors almost choked as they suppressed their laughter and downed the rest of their beer. Winking at their benefactor, they left the pub and headed back to the docks. Without money there wasn’t much point in going anywhere else. And if anything, they needed to get back on board Verspijk before Johnny returned, not wanting to show him any disrespect.

Unfortunately getting back into the docks was not as easy as getting out. When they went to enter without passes, they were challenged. They were still arguing with the sentries when a car pulled up at the gates and their CO got out. Len snapped to attention, but, without batting an eyelid, Jock appealed to the sentries once more.

‘See? I told you. Here he is. Lieutenant Commander Bull. He’s our Commanding Officer. He’ll vouch for us!’

Johnny gave the pair of them a stern look, and turned to the sentries. ‘These men are under my command. If you would kindly let them pass I will see they cause no further problems.’

Jock beamed at the sentries while Len remained at attention and looked stolidly front and centre. The sergeant of the guard nodded, ignoring the papers Johnny was offering in support.

‘You blokes come from Java, have ya?’

‘That’s right, sergeant. It’s been an interesting few weeks.’

‘Yeah, well you’d better smarten up your men, sir. They’re not in Java anymore.’

‘Thank you sergeant, we’ll remember that.’

The sergeant waved the three on, and Johnny shepherded his men into the dockyard.

On board the Verspijk once more, Johnny took them into the officers’ wardroom. Captain Oudenaarde sat in his wingback, reading a newspaper and puffing on a Sumatran as usual; blue smoke hung in the air. Len had discovered a real pleasure in the aroma of cigar smoke. He drew it slowly in through his nostrils now. Noticing Len’s behaviour, Oudenaarde graciously offered up his box of number sixes; Len accepted, choosing one.

‘Sit down, the pair of you,’ the Captain said.

Johnny brought four glasses to the table and took a bottle from his satchel.

‘Whisky!’ Jock eyed the bottle fondly. ‘God bless you, sir.’

Johnny poured, and took a glass to Oudenaarde before sitting down. He raised his glass and the other three raised theirs in return.

‘Absent friends,’ called Len. He didn’t know what made him say it.

The whisky disappeared, and Johnny poured again before pointedly screwing the cap back on the bottle. Len let the second glass sit. He felt the warmth of the liquor in his belly; along with the beer and enhanced by the cigar, it caused him to glow almost immediately. Jock was not so restrained; he downed his own second glass quickly, then fixed his eyes back on the bottle with the concentration of a sniper. Unfortunately this didn’t seem to make any impression on Johnny.

‘I’ve been into Perth and spoken to Commodore Collins,’ Johnny told them. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid.’

He paused, and Len wondered what was coming. Johnny seemed disturbed by what he was about to say, and took a sip from his glass.

‘I’m told a submarine was sent to the island to try and rescue our friends. They were unable to make contact, even though they made several attempts.’

Oudenaarde remained silent while Johnny watched his men thinking. Jock was the first to respond.

‘They might have got off some other way, sir?’

‘Yes, they might,’ Johnny replied. ‘Or they are still there, and failed to make contact with the sub.’

‘Or they have been captured,’ added Len,

There was a fourth consideration that none of them wanted to entertain.

They sat silently staring into their cups, even the Captain, who sensed the depth of feeling that prevailed between them at that moment. Len thought of Tim. And Jackie and Johnno. He was suddenly aware that, since they had landed at Merak, the events that had followed had been so all-consuming that Tim had slipped from his consciousness. He felt ashamed, and drained his whisky, banging his glass back down on the table just a little too hard.

‘Absent friends.’

More silence followed, before Johnny spoke again. ‘I have some good news too. We have been drafted to the Ascania. She sails for Melbourne and Auckland, leaving tomorrow on the tide. I’m not sure what the Navy has in mind for you, Jock. You are to report to the Australian Navy in Melbourne, but Len and I should be home in a week or so.’

Len’s head was suddenly filled with a confusion of thoughts: about Tim, the others, himself and his mother.

Johnny reached out for the bottle and unscrewed the cap.

‘Maybe I’ll get to stay in Australia,’ said Jock. ‘It’s supposed to be the place of the future, and it has to be better than Fife.’ It seemed that he, for one, was willing to seize his chance in a newly ordered world.

‘To the future,’ offered Johnny, and poured them all another glass.

‘Carpe diem,’ Jock replied.

‘Absent friends,’ offered Len, beginning to feel a little melancholic this time.

★ ★ ★

It was late the following morning when Len woke, and with a pounding headache. As he struggled to gather his senses and unglue his mouth, he realised that some of the pounding was real – his CO was banging on the cabin wall. Sleeping on a bunk again was a pleasure that had been largely wasted. If he’d had to, he could have slept as soundly on the deck. He rose delicately, to discover that the higher his head was the worse it ached. The taste in his mouth was vile, and he resolved never to smoke cigars again. He stood under a cold shower for an age, arms out braced against the sides, watching the rust-coloured water swirling around his feet before disappearing down the drain. When he emerged into the sunlight of the new day, it was as if daggers had been thrust through both of his eyes to strike the back of his skull. He reeled back into the shade and covered his eyes with a hand.

‘Top of the mornin’, Lenny,’ Jock greeted him. ‘How the hell are ye?’ He gave Len an almighty slap on the back. If nothing else, it shifted the focus of his pain.

‘Jesus. I didn’t think we’d drunk that much.’

‘You’re out of practice, lad, and I dare say lacking in Scottish genes. Ah, whisky. Mother’s milk.’ He put a hand on Len’s shoulder and gently steered him along the deck.

‘C’mon, the skipper wants to see us.’

When they entered the day room they found Johnny seated and browsing some papers.

‘OK, boys, pack your kit. We’re off to join the Ascania. Meet me back here in thirty minutes. It shouldn’t take you too long to get organised.’

It didn’t. Thirty minutes later the three men said their goodbyes to the Verspijk. Captain Oudenaarde and his two remaining officers had gathered at the top of the gangway to see them off. The Dutchmen had taken the trouble to wear as much of their uniform as they could find, and each wore his cap. The sailors had the best bits of their uniform on too. They all shook hands with genuine gratitude, the Dutch for the service the sailors had delivered, and the sailors for their delivery back into service.

14

Return to Eden

The Ascania was a twenty-year-old White Star liner of about 14,000 tons that had been converted into an armed merchant cruiser at the outbreak of the war and was now assigned to the New Zealand Station. Johnny reported to the acting Captain, Alistair Davidson, while Len was relieved to find himself assigned to a cabin of only four bunks, the Ascania being an ex-liner. His cabin mates were English: Liverpudlian merchant seamen who were being repositioned to man another vessel. They spoke in broad, mostly unintelligible Scouse, which proved something of a protection for Len, for he had no desire to talk.

Without the pressures he had felt during the escape, Len fell into a void, consumed by an indescribable loneliness and raging self-loathing. He felt remorseless nagging guilt that, in his inertia, invaded his thinking and filled him with shame. He was afraid that his friends and comrades were dead. They were lost and he had abandoned them.

He had learned to express his fear, to turn it into something powerful, but there was no opportunity to do that. Without expression, his fear turned to anger, a silent, seething anger so intense that his cabin mates stopped even trying to talk to him, and others avoided him. Johnny was out of reach, accommodated elsewhere, and Len had no desire to expose his frailties to his commanding officer. He was grieving, a confused, destructive grief.

Fortunately, the voyage to Melbourne took only three days. One night, while Len was sleeping, the ship’s klaxons called out the fire crew, and Len woke in a panic and broke out in a hot sweat. It turned out that there were problems with the Ascania’s boilers, and it was announced shortly afterwards that the vessel would not be able to continue to New Zealand as planned.

The three men disembarked in Melbourne, where Ascania would remain for repairs and maintenance. Johnny and Len were instructed to collect transport passes at the liaison desk at Flinders Street Station and take a train to Sydney. There would be passage home to Auckland from there. As expected, Jock had other instructions.

‘Jock, you’re to report to the Australian Naval authorities here,’ Johnny told him. ‘Looks like you might get your wish after all.’

The three comrades stood on the dock, clutching their meagre possessions. For a moment they were lost for words.

‘So I guess this is it,’ said Jock eventually, offering his hand to Johnny at the same time.

The two shook hands and clapped each other on the shoulder. Then Johnny spoke. ‘Thank you, Jock, for your fortitude and the fine example you have shown. We would not have managed without you.’

Jock stiffened. The Scot in him had returned.

‘Nae, sir. It wasn’t any fortitude of mine, or example. We could nae have done it without ye.’ He delivered a salute of parade-ground quality – not something he offered as a rule, and certainly never as well as he did now. Johnny returned the salute with equal gravitas.

Jock turned towards Len and embraced him fiercely. ‘And we would nae have done it without you, Lenny. God bless ye.’

Len briefly relaxed in the security of his friend’s embrace. They owed their lives to each other. He couldn’t distinguish precisely the chain of events that had signified their odyssey, it had been such a blur of action.

Len stood back first. His eyebrows flicked upwards. ‘Good on you, mate. Better start practising your Aussie accent. I’ll be seeing you.’

‘In your case I hope so, laddie.’ Raising his eyebrows in return, Jock added a wink, spun on his heel and marched off to get his instructions.

★ ★ ★

The rail journey was a novelty of sorts; a distraction. Len slept, and when he wasn’t asleep, he pretended to be. Sometime around midnight they arrived at Gundagai where the train stopped. Everybody got out and strolled along the platform while the engine was changed, the faint aroma of eucalyptus drifting by in the cool of the night. A disparate crowd of servicemen and civilians lined up at the Red Cross, to grab cups of hot tea and fresh Anzac biscuits. Len thought of his mother. He had resisted any thought of contacting his parents until now, reasoning that any attempt might be premature, for any number of reasons. He knew about false hope. All his mates had expected to return home, yet, one by one, he had left them all behind.

‘Here y’are, love. Ya look as if ya need somethin’ warm.’

An older woman with a Country Women’s Association badge on her lapel draped a jacket over his shoulders. She was right. It was a lot colder than the tropics, and he was feeling it.

‘Where ya from, love? Ya look a bit hungry. And ya’ve seen a bit of sun, haven’t ya?’

Len was a bit taken aback. Nobody had said much to him lately, and he hadn’t spoken much himself. ‘Thank you. That’s great,’ he managed. ‘Thank you.’ He didn’t know what else to say. The old tweed did warm him, in spite of the torn stitching in the shoulder.

‘Oh. So ya’re a Kiwi, are ya? Well, we won’t hold that against ya.’

It was a compliment, of sorts. Looking along the platform he caught sight of Johnny, enjoying the comfort of a first-class carriage. They acknowledged each other with a nod and a wink.

The journey was slow, and they were sidelined on several occasions while freight-laden trains passed by, before finally rolling into Sydney’s Central Station. Len and Johnny met up again on the platform before seeking out a Naval liaison desk. There they were given chits for accommodation, Johnny in a King’s Cross hotel, and Len in naval barracks at Woolloomooloo. They were only half a mile from each other, and Johnny promised to stay in touch and press for their repatriation at the earliest opportunity.

There were upwards of thirty vessels, merchant and Naval, in and around Sydney’s vast harbour. When Len reported to the gate at the Garden Island RAN base, he was directed to Kuttabul, a harbour ferry permanently moored at the island and reconfigured to accommodate junior ratings and Naval personnel who were in transit. He gratefully accepted hammock space on an upper deck, where the breeze at least mitigated some of the humidity.

★ ★ ★

Days passed, but the ennui did not. Both men attended various routines while they waited for news of their repatriation. Len attended numerous musters, while for Johnny it was invariably social events. Len found it particularly hard; he drifted, directionless in a pool of despondency. The same questions kept spinning through his head. How would he cope meeting with Ava? How could he avoid the awful truth of what had happened to Tim? How would he control the emotions that would inevitably visit him then, when he could hardly control them now? How could he resist having his sensibilities cross over, from empathy or sympathy to something beyond? All he wanted was to draw Ava close and bury his nose in her hair. Then his self-loathing overflowed. And he drank.

Johnny came by to see him, shortly after visiting Malcolm Henderson’s parents. He didn’t say much about it, and Len didn’t ask, but the encounter seemed to have made Johnny unnaturally despondent. That caused Len to dread even further the inevitable conversation with Ava.

As personnel came and went, Len’s continued presence on Kuttabul began to attract the interest of some of the Australian junior ratings. Two weeks had passed when he was challenged about his dishevelled state and perceived inactivity.

‘Mate, what are ya?’ one of the ratings asked him belligerently, gesturing at the way Len had organised his possessions and his apparently permanent situation.

‘Leave him alone. He’s probably seen more than you will ever see.’

Len squirmed at the intervention, offered by a tall, blond Dutchman, also billeted temporarily on Kuttabul. In spite of Len’s passive aggression, the Dutchman seemed to have gathered some understanding about the moody Kiwi.

The Australian now became aggresive, and the situation became almost inflammatory, before a passing Petty Officer intervened.

‘All right, all right, you bastards. You’ – he looked directly at his countrymen – ‘you get on with whatever the hell you’re supposed to be doing. And you two,’ he said, looking at Len and his defender, ‘you make yourself scarce before another one of these idiots wants to have a go.’

They didn’t need another hint, but swept up their caps and together headed off the vessel and out the gates. It was late morning. They walked up the hill through Potts Point, and eventually found a suitable pub in the Cross. For a while they sat drinking in grateful silence. Len sat propped in shadow in the corner of their booth, studying his companion through half-closed eyes. It occurred to him that this man was probably nursing his own losses. ‘You have family?’ he asked him.

The man quaffed deeply. ‘Had. I left my wife and daughters behind. She’s Javanese. I hope to God they will be all right.’

Len didn’t need to ask why; he was well aware that mixed marriages had been another focus of Japanese victimisation.

It turned out Len and his new friend had both survived the final evacuation of Java. The Dutchman had been fished from the sea by a friendly vessel after his own had been sunk by a submarine.

They drank on for an hour or more, downing several more schooners, until a large group of American sailors barged into the pub and swamped the bar. The raucous sound of American accents and their almost celebratory conduct contrasted heavily with the mood of the two men.

One of the Americans detached from his group, and made as if to slide into their booth.

‘Howdy, guys. Mind if we join you?’

Len looked at his empty glass and back at the American. It was not the sort of company he wanted. He stood up and gestured at the booth.

‘No thanks, mate, if you don’t mind. But make yourselves at home.’

The Dutchman stood too. Several more Americans gravitated to their table. It was clear they had already been drinking.

‘What’s the matter? Don’t like company?’

‘No, mate, not particularly. Not today.’

The frankness of Len’s reply confused the Americans. Some of them thought they had been insulted, and switched in a breath to a more menacing posture.

‘What did the little fuck say?’

‘He said nothing.’ Len’s Dutch friend had interceded again on his behalf. ‘Come on, my friend. Let’s go now.’

The Dutchman put his hand on Len’s shoulder, and the two of them headed for the door. At first the Americans, most of whom were now aware of the situation, if not actually involved, appeared unwilling to let them through, but they parted reluctantly nevertheless. Insults followed them towards the door.

‘Who the fuck are they?’

‘One’s a Brit. The dark one sounded like a Brit.’

As they reached the door, someone blocked their way.

‘You a Kraut? Ya look like a fucking Kraut.’

‘Jezuz Christus,’ the Dutchman said. His hand shot out, and he thrust his antagonist out of the way. A glass sailed through the air and smashed on the wall beside Len’s head, at the very moment a jeep with four burly US Navy MPs in it pulled up outside the pub. Len felt a trickle run down his temple, and wiped a small amount of blood away with his hand. ‘They’ve got the attitude,’ he commented.

‘Ja,’ his friend replied. ‘But not the aim.’

The MPs jumped from their vehicle clutching long batons and, barging past the two men, went inside. To the receding sound of men shouting, breaking glass and furniture being overturned, Len and the Dutchman made their way downhill towards the barracks once more.

Several hours later, Len was roused from an inebriated slumber by someone pulling on his hammock, swinging it violently. The effect did nothing to assuage his nausea.

‘Wake up, Len, wake up.’

It was Johnny. Len threw his legs over the side so quickly he nearly landed on the floor, but fortunately Johnny steadied the hammock. Len looked around with bleary eyes. The sun was gone, a glimmer on the upper harbour. Dusk. He’d been asleep for a couple of hours.

‘We have orders at last. We sail for Auckland. Tomorrow. Aboard the Strathallan. We’re going home.’

This time there was no elation. After Johnny had explained the details, he left, leaving Len somewhat disoriented. He made his way to the fire hose, meaning to douse himself and restore himself to a more conscious state. The water was slow to fill the hose, and so he turned the pressure up: so much so that when the water did arrive, it came at high velocity, thoroughly drenching him and the surrounding deck. He slammed the valve shut, rushed to the rail and vomited violently into the sea below.

★ ★ ★

The 4th of April 1942 was Easter Saturday. It had been over seven weeks since the fall of Singapore, and Kate Hill was in her garden planting dahlias. Len stood silently watching. Kneeling at the flowerbed near the rimu, with the sun at her back and a tray of bulbs beside her, she quietly loosened the soil with her trowel, systematically pulling the weeds, spacing the bulbs and bedding the soil back down, moving the cushion beneath her knees every so often. Behind her, plump tūī swooped towards the feijoa trees at the bottom of the garden, whistling, chortling and tootling as they fluttered through the foliage.

He opened the gate and called quietly to his mother, almost reluctant to disturb her.

‘Hullo, Mum.’

He wasn’t sure she had heard.

‘Mum!’

‘Leonard?’ She cocked her head. ‘Is that you?’

Kate was confused. The fear was familiar. The hope was not.

She reached out and he helped as she struggled stiffly to her feet. Briefly he needed to support her. She drew back to help her focus. It didn’t look like him. Nor did it feel like him – so hard under her touch.

‘Hullo, Mum.’

It was him. For a moment she felt entirely drained, emptied of doubt at last.

‘Take me inside, son.’

She turned to the house. He took her hand and led her down the driveway, with its immaculate mowing strip, up the steps of the enclosed veranda and to the settee. She turned and lowered herself gently, then sat down abruptly and banged on the floor with a stick left by the door for the purpose.

‘Arthur! Arthur! Get up here. It’s Leonard.’ She swallowed. ‘He’s …’ She swallowed again. ‘Leonard’s home!’

There was a noise from under the house and the rumble of a voice below. Len’s sister Joy appeared in the doorway, holding a bundle of freshly ironed tea towels, her mouth half open. He reached out to touch her, to prove he was real. When he turned to his mother again, he noticed a tear rolling down her soft brown cheeks. She reached out to him and briefly held him close, he standing, she sitting, one of her arms around his waist, the other reaching for her handkerchief. Tears began to well in his eyes, too. He gently loosened her grasp and turned away.

Stunned, Joy went inside and flung the towels onto the dining table. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

Len watched as his father came into view. Arthur was beginning to stoop. Clad in oversized khaki overalls, a half-smoked rollie tucked behind his ear, he wheezed his way up from his workshop under the house.

‘What did you say?’

As he reached the top of the stairs, he paused a moment and deftly spat a speck of tobacco off his tongue into the garden. He turned and stepped into the small veranda.

‘Gidday, Dad.’

Arthur stopped dead. He looked at the apparition in front of him for only a moment, then gave a nod and a wink.

‘Gidday, son.’

They stood eye to eye, man to man, and shook hands. They touched their brows briefly, then separated. Len thought of Haami Parata, with a deep and intense gratitude. From the neighbour’s piano the sound of ‘Für Elise’ came wafting through the trees.

Arthur looked carefully at him. ‘How are you, son?’

‘Fine, Dad. Really.’

But Arthur wasn’t convinced. The boy did not seem present.

He lowered himself onto the settee beside his wife.

‘Sit yourself down, son. We’ll have a cup of tea. When you’re good and ready, you can tell us what you’ve been up to.’

Epilogue

In the mid-1950s, to celebrate the arrival in Auckland of a group of American Navy destroyers on a goodwill visit, a private dinner was held at the Royal New Zealand Yacht Squadron headquarters, below the Supreme Court buildings on Anzac Avenue. On the day, at around five in the afternoon, a car pulled up in front of the building, and Johnny Bull got out.

‘We should be finished by ten, darling. Are you sure you don’t mind picking me up?’

Cecily nodded and blew him a kiss as he shut the door. Johnny turned and walked towards the Yacht Squadron club rooms as she drove away. He signed the book on entering and headed for the bar, acknowledging certain other members in passing. He ordered a whisky and water and waited. Through the door to the dining room he watched staff making last-minute arrangements for the dinner. As he gazed around the establishment, he could not help but notice the memorial on the house bar wall, nor avoid being reminded about those members who had not survived the war, whose names were regularly invoked in solemn toasts.

Johnny’s personal war knew no end. Even now, years later, he needed no prompt to see those men’s faces, and their voices invaded his thinking without warning.

‘Here you are, sir.’

He took the proffered tumbler just as the honoured guests and their hosts entered the house bar. Jack Gifford stepped forward.

‘Here he is. Johnny! Let me introduce you to our guests. Gentlemen, this is Johnny Bull: Lieutenant Commander Johnny Bull, ex-Naval Reserve, and a member of our committee.’

Johnny was introduced to each of the Americans in turn, before coming to the last guest.

‘Nice to meet you, Johnny. Commander Monk Hendrick, USS Buck. Call me Monk.’

The group, about a dozen, were ushered into the dining room and took their assigned places at the table. The atmosphere was warm, his companions were affable, and the conversation became more animated as the evening progressed. The oysters were well received, and while they waited between courses, Monk Hendrick ordered another bourbon.

‘Rocks. Straight up, with a twist.’

Monk liked his liquor hard.

‘So tell me a little about your tour of duty, Monk,’ Johnny said. ‘I understand you’ve been away from home for a while.’

Hendrick described a twenty-month tour patrolling the China Sea as escort to a carrier force. ‘But I started my naval career on a battleship,’ he said.

‘Good heavens. When was that?’

‘1939, but it was only for a year.’

The young American Ensign seated opposite Johnny regarded the Kiwi with scepticism, wondering what the war experience of an ex-New Zealand Naval Reserve Lieutenant Commander might have been. As Johnny took a mouthful, the Ensign took the chance to question him.

‘So you saw service? During the war? Whereabouts?’

‘Most of my time was spent in the Solomons,’ Johnny replied.

‘Oh, yeah? Didn’t know you Kiwis fought in the Pacific.’

Johnny wondered if this was a deliberate slight, but thought better of it. ‘Yes. We were. There weren’t many of us. Most New Zealanders were fighting in Europe.’

‘So what did you Kiwis do?’ The Ensign pressed him.

This time, the inflection did seem deliberate, but Johnny indulged his inquisitor. ‘I served in an anti-submarine flotilla working out of Renaud Sound.’

‘Guadalcanal!’ This time it was Monk Hendricks who replied. ‘Hell, we Americans know all about that.’

Jack Gifford joined the conversation from across the table. ‘Johnny commanded the flotilla.’

‘That right?’ Hendrick looked across at his junior officer. ‘I have to say we were a bit late to the party, but I was involved here myself, in the Pacific. In submarines.’

Now Johnny’s interest was pricked. ‘Subs?’

‘Yup. Thirteen years. Helluva job,’ said Monk, shaking his head.

‘I’m sure it was.’ Johnny nodded in agreement.

Wine was refreshed and toasts offered, and when, with a coordinated flourish, the waiters presented dinner, the visitors cooed with appreciation. For a while the conversation was suspended, and the room filled with the sound of cutlery on china and the clinking of glassware.

Monk Hendrick belched, quietly.

‘Beg pardon, gentlemen. Damned good spread, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ He took another mouthful, then asked, ‘So tell me, Johnny: you Kiwis were in the war from the beginning. Where else did you serve?’

Johnny finished his mouthful and swallowed. ‘Malaya. And Singapore.’

‘That right?’ exclaimed Hendrick. ‘Singapore? I found myself there once. That was pretty early in the piece, trying to rescue a bunch of Brits who got themselves marooned on some island.’

The Committee members, who knew of Johnny’s Singapore experience, stopped what they were doing and sat motionless, wondering how he might react. The sudden suspension of activity seized the attention of the visitors, who also stopped eating.

‘What? Did I say something?’

Johnny put down his knife and fork. He paused, then said, ‘We should talk a bit more, Monk. Perhaps you would like to come to dinner, at my house. Would you be free, say Friday?’

★ ★ ★

Monk Hendrick was grateful he had the use of a Navy driver. The Bulls’ home was a long way from the city, and a taxi would have cost a small fortune. This way, he was able to sit back and enjoy the journey, which swept him along the beautiful foreshore of Auckland’s inner harbour, with its volcanoes, inlets and beaches. Eventually they arrived at Karaka Bay.

This too was a special place. The rising sun bathed the site daily, and on the beach in 1840, eminent rangatira from Tamaki had gathered here to sign a local version of the Treaty of Waitangi. Over time, the Bull family had built several dwellings on the land, and several generations had swum contentedly from the beach, and learned to sail on the Gulf waters.

The car pulled up outside a neat weatherboard bungalow, and four people emerged on cue: Johnny in reefer jacket and tie, his wife in a floral frock, and two children.

The two men shook hands.

‘Good evening, Monk. Let me introduce you to my wife, Cecily.’

‘Honoured, Ma’am. You have a beautiful place here.’

Hendrick was in uniform: a gesture of respect towards his host. He saluted Cecily Bull, then swept his cap off and shook her hand. He then shook hands with the two children, a son and daughter around ten and eight years old respectively, who immediately raced off elsewhere.

‘Come in, Commander,’ Cecily said to Hendrick. ‘Please come in and make yourself at home. Give me your cap. Johnny will pour us a drink. I understand you like bourbon.’

Dinner with the family passed agreeably, without any reference to Singapore or the Navy until the pavlova had been almost entirely consumed by Hendrick, and the table cleared. Then the two children left, while Cecily took orders for coffee or tea and Johnny went to the sideboard, where he collected a neat pile of documents that Hendrick had noticed previously and brought them to the table.

Johnny sat down and began to speak. Hendrick listened, as his new friend began to describe the flight of ML310 from Singapore. He was all the more attentive as Johnny described how he and the staff party had evaded the Japanese and run aground, and how he and two of his ratings had succeeded in escaping the island to seek help. Hendrick watched his friend’s demeanour change and become deeply solemn as he described his efforts to engineer a rescue for his crew and the abandoned party, and his enduring disappointment that the rescue had failed and so few had survived.

In the silence that followed, Monk Hendrick absorbed all that he had heard. Cecily Bull had quietly re-entered the room with fresh coffee and had also been listening. She put a comforting hand on her husband’s shoulder and poured him another cup. It was the first time she had ever heard Johnny talk about the subject in any detail. Their daughter Anne, who had settled under the table unnoticed, engaged in some game or other, sat listening to something she was destined never to forget.

★ ★ ★

The next morning, Johnny awoke late. His head was thick after a late night and too many brandies, and it took him a while to collect his thoughts, but in due course he made his way to the telephone, carrying a cup of tea, and sat down.

The phone rang a long time before Len answered it. He recognised Johnny’s voice immediately.

‘I’ve got something to tell you, old son,’ Johnny said. ‘Can you meet me today, at the Churchill, say 3 o’clock?’

★ ★ ★

Len lived with his wife Pat and their young son in Glendowie, which wasn’t very far from Karaka Bay, and the two men and their wives met frequently at the Churchill Club nearby.

Driving to the meeting, Len wondered what Johnny wanted to talk about. He thought about their shared wartime experiences and their lives since. Unlike Johnny, he had not found it so easy to re-enter civilian life. Johnny was seven years his senior and had returned to a wife and child and his old job, more able to pick up his former life from where he had left it, whereas he himself had left New Zealand a boy and returned a man, with little in front of him but opportunity. While he now had a family and a job working with his father-in-law, he was struggling. He had learned much about where he had come from, and who he was, but the question of where he was going with his life had not been easy to answer. On the one hand, he and Pat had begun to talk about moving away from Auckland, beyond the influence of her father, to start a new life elsewhere. But there was another question of direction that he had found not so easy to resolve.

At times like this when his friend Haami came to mind, he was forced to acknowledge how little he had enquired into te ao Māori beyond what Haami had offered. He shared this with no one, and the more he considered it, the less inclined he was to do so. To discuss the matter openly was likely to start an argument, and like his brother Bill before him, Len found that ‘being Pākehā’, as he more obviously was, was a safer space to stand; so that is where he stood, and he felt guilty for it. He felt shame even – whakamā, he remembered – for letting his friend down and not rising to his challenge to stand strong, to be counted.

There was a banging on the roof of the car. Johnny had emerged from the car beside him. The two of them went inside together, bought a beer and sat down in a quiet corner of the Club.

‘Cecily and I entertained last night, a Commander off one of those visiting US ships,’ Johnny said, and began to repeat the story Monk Hendrick had told him the night before. Len sat back in his chair and listened while Johnny told him the story of S-39 and the failed rescue.

Both men sat deep in thought.

Johnny was wondering what Collins had said to him at the time. ‘There’s little hope.’ Or was it, ‘There’s a little hope’? He couldn’t remember any more. What was hope anyway but unfulfilled promise? And he more than most understood that an unfulfilled promise lasts a lifetime.

‘What’s that?’ Len was indicating an envelope that Johnny had placed on the table when he arrived.

‘Sorry.’ Johnny took something from the envelope, unfolded it and shook it open. It was a National Geographic map of South East Asia. He laid it in front of Len.

‘You need to see this.’

The two men stared at the map, taking in the added detail. They stared at the truth, Len in a stupefied silence. The demons that had dogged both men since the war’s end now crowded the table, and truth did nothing to lighten their darkness.

The passages as inscribed on the map by Johnny and Monk Hendrick were not contiguous. The place identified by Hendrick as the island on which it was understood the men were marooned was over 100 nautical miles too far north: nearer Singapore and much closer to Bintan than to Bangka.

‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw it.’ Johnny felt his anger rising. His fists tightened. ‘How, in God’s name, could my directions be miscommunicated? Men died!’ He didn’t see the mist in Len’s eyes. ‘All that risk, and for nothing. They went to the wrong bloody place.’

Taking up their glasses wordlessly, the two men wandered outside and into the fresh air and stood staring out over the estuary. Several small boys busied themselves around two small yachts sitting up on the beach, trying to control the sails flapping loosely in the breeze.

‘The more things change,’ Johnny said, ‘the more they stay the same.’

‘You’re right,’ replied Len, eyes closed, listening to the cry of the gulls on the wind.

Afterword

Of the sixty small boats that fled Singapore on 13 February 1942, most were captured or sunk, and the majority of the 3000 key personnel on board the boats – staff officers, technicians, nurses – were captured or killed. Of the forty-four people on ML310, only three escaped. Those who perished of disease on the island included the Admiral and the Air Vice Marshall. Others were betrayed, or captured and executed trying to escape. Less than half survived to become POWs.

After furlough, Len and Johnny returned to active service. As part of the war effort, a fleet of twelve Fairmiles was built in Auckland and sent to the Solomon Islands to help provide anti-submarine protection and convoy support to the Allied effort. The two men served together on ML403, Johnny eventually becoming Senior Officer commanding the 80th Anti-Submarine Flotilla. While in the Solomons Len caught up with Lofty again: Signalman Neville was now serving on a minesweeper, but that is another story.

Len built a sizeable business in post-war New Zealand. In a huge irony, he gained success importing Japanese earth-moving equipment, as both New Zealand and Japan engaged in the reconstruction processes vital to their respective futures. Len’s Rotorua-based company was heavily involved in North Island road-building and forestry, as well as hydro-electric projects in the South Island. He had occasion to visit Japan more than once on business, and developed an admiration for the culture and the people. He adopted Japanese habits, and in later life he could be found living a Zen-like life of relative asceticism, shuffling about the house in yukata and slippers, enjoying the occasional sake at sunset.

Len was my father. In the early 1980s, I persuaded him to travel with me to Singapore and Java, with the idea that he might find it worthwhile. While I stayed elsewhere in Singapore, he stayed at Raffles, fulfilling an ambition that he had formed during those dangerous weeks in 1942. Later he and I rattled through Java by train. With hindsight I realise that at no time during that journey did he ever speak of the war. What I knew about his experience I had gleaned over years. I did not understand then that this was the very route that had led him and the others to safety, so his silence on the subject at the time was meaningless to me, but it means much to me to have shared that journey with him.

Years later, in retirement and listening to the radio, Len heard his name broadcast on a programme for returned servicemen. It was a message to him from Jock Brough, still residing in Melbourne. The old comrades never met again, but were able to speak on the phone on several occasions.

Johnny Bull enjoyed a happy marriage and a successful career after the war. He went into business as a trader and led a rich and rewarding life. Apart from his extraordinary encounter with Monk Hendricks, Johnny also made contact with Dutch Captain Hokke of the Sirius. He never forgot his duty to his men, something he shared with me in later life. He passed away in 1996, survived by his son Johnny and his daughter Anne.

Len avoided having to tell Ava of Tim’s probable fate. When they met again, she was already aware that he was missing. Miraculously, however, Tim Hill survived the sinking of ML311. He clung to wreckage for three days before being pulled from the water by the Japanese and interned in Changi as a prisoner of war. From there he was sent to work on the railway in Burma, where he experienced further miracles of survival. In one incident he was saved moments before being executed in reprisal for events in New Zealand involving Japanese POWs, by Australians claiming he was one of theirs. Ava, who worked for the American forces in New Zealand as a typist, only found out Tim was alive in January 1944, when his name was reported in the newspaper. When Tim was finally repatriated in 1946 and the ship berthed in Wellington, his sweetheart was standing on the wharf with her wedding dress over her arm, and they were married forthwith. After the war Tim ran a grain and seed business in Te Aroha with his brother Graham. Throughout the remainder of his days, he refused to allow anything remotely Japanese in his life. Health issues dogged him as a result of his experience as a POW, and he passed away in 1987, survived by Ava and their daughters Christine and April.

Jack Hulbert, too, was captured in Singapore, but survived being a prisoner of the Japanese, and in later years he and Len reconnected. Well into their seventies, the two old mates would disappear out into the Gulf once more, boys again, sailing lazily around the islands on Jack’s boat Ganymede, fishing for their supper and sleeping under the stars.

Len reposes there still. That’s where I scattered his ashes. Tim Hill and Johnny Bull were my godfathers.

Appendix 1
Crew and Passengers – ML310

Crew |  |
Lt Herbert John BULL | RNZNVR | Escaped
Sub Lt Malcolm Haslam HENDERSON | RANVR | Died
L/S Andrew Dowie BROUGH | RN | Escaped
AB Leonard Bruce HILL | RNZNVR | Escaped
AB Jack HAYWOOD | RNZNVR | Died
P/O Motor Mechanic T H S JOHNCOCK | RN | POW
P/O Edwin Richard TOWNSEND | RN | Died
AB Alfred ROBINSON | RN | ?
O/S Robert William FLOWER | RN | Died
O/S James Edward RUSSELL | RN | Died
O/S Ronald Arthur JOHNSON | RN | POW
Stoker William PADDON | RN | POW
Stoker Edward TUCKER | RN | POW
O/Tel Alan TWEEDALE | RN | POW
Teh Ling/‘Charlie’ CHAN | Cook | Missing

Passengers |  |
Navy |  |
Vice Admiral Ernest John SPOONER | RN | Died
Cdr Pendarvis Lister FRAMPTON | RN | Died
Lt Richard POOL | RN | POW
Warrant Boatswain RICHARDSON | RN | POW
P/O Ralph KEELING | RN | Died
P/O Charles FAIRBANKS | RN | POW
P/O Stoker Arthur James BALE | RNZNVR | Died
O/T Hector SMETHWICK | RAN | POW
AB Herb OLDNALL | RNZNVR | POW
AB Bert GIBSON | RN | Died
AB John LITTLE | RN | Died

Airforce |  |
Air Vice Marshall Conway PULFORD | RAF | Died
WCdr George Purcell ATKINS | RAFVR | POW
AC Norman SMITH | RAF | POW
LAC Arthur BETTANY | RAF | POW

Army |  |
Lt Ian STONOR | Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders | POW
Sgt Edward HORNBY | Royal Marines | Died
Sgt Reg WRIGHT | Military Police | POW
Staff Sgt John LUCKETT | Royal Engineers | Missing
Staff Sgt James GINN | Royal Engineers | Missing
Staff Sgt Richard DAVIES | Royal Engineers | Died
Cpl Samuel SULLY | Royal Marines | Died
L/Cpl Henry SHRIMPTON | Military Police | Died
L/Cpl Jack TURNER | Military Police | POW
L/Cpl Stan SCHIEF | Military Police | POW
L/Cpl Reg STRIDE | Military Police | POW
Pvt James ROBINSON | Royal Marines | POW
Pvt Charles DAVY | Royal Marines | POW
Pvt William SMITH | Royal Marines | POW
Pvt James SNEDDON | Royal Marines | POW
Pvt James DOCHERTY | Gordon Highlanders | ?
Stoker Leonard SCAMMELL | RN | ?
Auburn DIMMETT | Civilian | ?

These are based on the crew list as written by Johnny Bull in his Report of Proceedings to Commodore Commanding China Force, Batavia, 28 February 1942.

Appendix 2
Photographs

A sombre bunch. Durban, 24 December 1942, en route to Singapore. Len sits front on the left, next to Johnno. Behind, left to right, are Jack Kindred, Harry Swift and Tim Hill.

HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION

January 1941. The winter of 1940/41 was spent in the North Sea, escorting convoys between Scapa Flow and the Firth of Forth, which meant leave was spent in Scotland.

HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION

Te Waka O Tū – the war god’s canoe – was the Cunard liner, Her Majesty’s Troopship Aquitania. On the cover of the programme for a concert performed during the voyage are the names of the seventeen different elements being transported to battle in Europe. Inside the programme are eighty-eight signatures of, mostly, Auckland Reservists.

HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION

In 1943 Len was engaged in preparing the 80th Fairmile Flotilla for service in the Solomon Islands. His brother had returned home from North Africa on furlough. Len is on the right in the picture with brother Bill (centre) and an unidentified friend.

HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION

1939: two young Naval Reservists, Len and Lofty, snapped in passing by a Queen Street photographer.

HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION

Len and Jack Hulbert, a couple of happy-go-lucky lads about town, and keen sailors.

HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION

Four mates in uniform, 1941. After Alynbank, before Singapore. Left to right: Len, Lofty, Alistair McArthur, Jackie Hayward.

HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION

Thirty young New Zealand Naval Volunteer Reservists HMS St Vincent, Gosport, Hants, August 1940. Len sits cross-legged, front left; Tim stands on the left of the middle row; and Lofty stands at the rear, fourth from the left.

HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION

Ordinary Seaman Len Hill RNVR(NZDiv) Gosport, Hants, 1940.

HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION

Lt. Cdr. Johnny Bull RNZNVR Devonport, New Zealand, 1944.

RNZN MUSEUM

Acknowledgements

The genesis of this book is modest. It began in fact with a radio broadcast. ‘ML310’ was an episode of a serial called ‘On Active Service’, broadcast on New Zealand’s national radio network in early 1960. Imagine the moment a young boy, listening to the wartime experiences of ordinary New Zealanders delivered over the wireless in highly melodramatic tones, hears the name of his father – who then speaks! It was enough to justify a lifetime of enquiry.

I spent the school holidays in the 1960s travelling with my father up and down the gravel back roads of the central North Island, selling tins of re-refined motor oil out of the car to anyone who needed it. Unsurprisingly, during these long and invariably winding journeys, stories were told and questions were asked. After the radio programme the questions became more thoughtful, and over time insights were offered, snippets were revealed and answers were garnered. Naturally, even more questions arose. The more I learned, the more I wanted to know.

One source of my growing understanding lay in my father’s books. The titles speak for themselves. Ion Idriess and Tom Jones’s The Silent Service, Hilary St George Saunders’s The Red Berets, Roy Farran’s Winged Dagger and Wavy Navy, edited by Lennox Kerr and David James concentrate on special units. Len wasn’t a specialist in this sense, but he found himself in special circumstances. Ralph Barker’s Down in the Drink, Paul Brickhill’s Escape or Die and Eric Williams’s Wooden Horse offer remarkable stories of escape. Singapore Tragedy by S E Field describes life in Singapore before the war and vividly details the collapse, uniquely, from a New Zealander’s perspective. Noel Barber’s Sinister Twilight and Richard Gough’s The Escape from Singapore further describe the collapse. Alfred Allbury’s Bamboo and Bushido, Kenneth Harrison’s The Brave Japanese and Rohan Rivett’s Behind Bamboo describe the prisoner-of-war experience. Two texts by Edward, Lord Russell of Liverpool, The Knights of Bushido and Scourge of the Swastika, are essentially summaries of the war as perpetrated by Russell’s enemies.

It was clear to me that my father’s thinking about the war was broad, and extended well past its end. The authors that Len and Tim Hill suggested, privately, best reflected their personal experiences were Ion Idriess and Rohan Rivett respectively.

I am given to colonising second-hand bookshops, and have acquired a number of invaluable texts, including The Royal New Zealand Navy: Official History of New Zealand in the Second World War 1939–1945 by S D Waters, Blue-Water Rationale: The Naval Defence of New Zealand 1914–1942 by I C MacGibbon, The Rise and Fall of the Singapore Naval Base, 1919–1942 by W David McIntyre, the wonderful book about the RNVR by Brian Lavery, In Which They Served, and the essential Anzacs at War by John Laffin. My collection includes classics like Duff Cooper’s Old Men Forget – a first-hand account of events surrounding the fall of Singapore, from the inside.

The contribution, to the historical record of the RNZNVR from those who served – Jack Harker, John McEwan and Ken Cassells – is vitally important, as is that of Gerry Wright.

Of many possible sources, Australian Peter Brune’s Descent into Hell presented me with the best current interpretation of the Malayan campaign.

There are photographs. And there is the internet, of course, the marvellous tool that allows us to uncover information from the farthest, most labyrinthine recesses of our collective knowledge.

★ ★ ★

For me the most valuable sources of information – the most authentic – were the men themselves. It was my great privilege to have known not only Len, of course, but also Lofty Neville, Tim Hill and Johnny Bull. I can still hear the sound of their voices. In fact, Lofty Neville’s voice can still be heard, in the Navy’s Oral History archive. I knew others, too: men who served on the light cruiser Achilles and in the Solomons. The reader should not think that any of them gave information easily – but what little they did give was not easy to forget. Over tea, Johnny once told me ‘We didn’t row so much as bail for our lives.’ This image stayed in my mind ever after. On another occasion, fifty years after the event, Johnny confessed to me that he still carried the burden of survival, and the fate of his men continued to haunt him.

One of the voices in this narrative is that of Richard Pool, the young Sub-Lieutenant and survivor of the sinking of Repulse. Pool’s 1987 book, Course for Disaster, speaks of the fall of Singapore and the escape of ML310. Should the reader look closely, he or she will find differences between Pool’s narrative and mine. The reason for this is that my father and Johnny Bull disagreed with Pool’s account in several respects. Businessman and analytical thinker that he was, Len once wrote a letter to Johnny Bull in which he detailed, item by item, those aspects of Pool’s book with which he took issue. When Johnny read the letter, he countersigned each point and wrote the words ‘I concur’ beside his initials. In choosing the direction of the narrative, I went to primary sources and the original reports of proceedings and documents of record first, wherever possible. Taking this and, most significantly for me, Len’s letter to his Commanding Officer and Johnny’s subsequent response, into account, I leaned in favour of their account.

What is powerfully evident to me is that these men never forgot their experiences, but maintained a dialogue throughout their lives in search of the truth. Their silence was not due to absence of memory. In fact, many dedicated a significant part of the rest of their lives to understanding and preserving the facts; not for posterity, but privately, for their own peace of mind.

It is a sad fact that, at the time of writing, there is very little on record about those New Zealanders who served in Singapore. Furthermore, there are no records held by the Navy Museum for either the 80th or the 81st Fairmile Flotilla. It is as if the service of those young men of the Royal New Zealand Navy Volunteer Reserve was superficial, lacking in distinction, or of insufficient merit to warrant inclusion in our history. That is not the case. Happily, there have been other writers who have focussed on this omission, and it is hoped this modest effort will also help reverse that travesty.

I believe it is only appropriate to honour these men by using their real names. Not having had the privilege of knowing Richard Pool, Ernest Spooner or Ian Stonor, among others, their characters were difficult for me to express. The Admiral seemed to me to be a man of dignity and conscience, a staunch servant of King and country, and Ian Stonor a leader of men. In bringing these characters to life, I have tried hard to be fair-minded.

Otherwise, in joining the dots, I have made every effort to conform to the facts. These include the vexing story of New Zealand-born Patrick Heenan, whose treachery is best described in Peter Elphick and Michael Smith’s book Odd Man Out. It is unsurprising that such a devastating element of the Singapore story can have remained obscured for so long. Seeking the truth was difficult, and aspects like time, date, number and spelling offer enormous potential for error and contradiction, which seems to expand exponentially according to the amount of source material one has to hand. I still can’t be certain exactly who was on the crew of ML310, for example.

Perhaps the most valuable sources – over time – were, of course, the wives. As a boy growing up in the 1950s, I was regularly told by my mother, ‘Eat your Vegemite. It saved your Uncle Tim!’ I did not realise at the time of course, but that was a reference to Tim’s prisoner-of-war experience. Years later, in preparation for this narrative, Ava prompted me over things I had no knowledge of, or found difficult, pre-empting one line of enquiry with ‘You mean the gold?’ In between, the facts began to present in similarly small portions. Somewhere I even have a single Singapore Straits dollar bill.

The children too made huge contributions, particularly Tim’s older daughter Christine Dwight, and Johnny’s daughter Anne Heise, both of whom tolerated my random communications and offered heartfelt encouragement. Anne was able to deliver a wealth of written material.

I must acknowledge Michael Wynd, researcher for the RNZN and Petar Djokovic, researcher for the RAN, not to mention staff at the Imperial War Museum, London, and the Dutch Naval Archive in Amsterdam.

Dean Parker has been a particular source of inspiration and support. My friends and mentors Christopher Johnstone, author and arts administrator, and Jo Emeney, poet and educator, have both been tolerant listeners and invaluable sounding boards for my literary pretensions.

My deep gratitude goes to Huia Publishers and Creative New Zealand, who saw some potential in my manuscript, granting me a Te Papa Tupu award for emerging Māori writers; mentoring in the form of Mary McCallum, who provided stability, clarity and every encouragement in a wonderfully empowering partnership; and a very patient publisher in Eboni Waitere.

Finally, nothing would be complete without acknowledging Susan Haywood, classicist, educator, linguist and grammarian, who brought a rigour to the project that defies measure. She is also my wife (which helped). This book would never have been completed without her.

Nor would I.

David B Hill

Freemans Bay

April 2018

Index

Page numbers in bold refer to images.

Achilles 245

Ajax 245

Allied Combined Fleet 231

Alynbank 60–71, 128, 144

American British Dutch Australian force (ABDA) 82, 238, 245–46, 251

Andaman Sea 82

Anniversary Day regattas, Auckland 8, 86

Aorangi 78–83

Aquarius 165, 182

Aquitania 29, 30, 31–33, 35, 38–40, 314

Ascania 285, 286, 287–88

Atkins, George 151, 164, 172, 175, 177, 178, 180, 310

Attack 74

Australia 29, 45

Australian Broadcasting Corporation, Far East bureau 264, 280

Australian Imperial Force, Great War 21

Australian Imperial Force, Second World War

Java 243

Malaya 113, 115, 116, 118–19, 120

Singapore 131

Bale, Arthur 151

Bale, Arthur James 310

Ballarat 265

Bandung 240, 249, 250, 254

Bangka Island 160, 164, 196, 197, 199, 200, 201–02, 204, 208

Bangka Strait 160–70, 197

Batavia 149, 157, 186–87, 208, 214, 221, 231, 235, 236–47, 249, 264, 279

Batu Pahat 107–08, 109, 111, 112, 113–17, 160

Berhala Straits 160

Bettany, Arthur 314

Blackburn, Arthur 242

Blackforce 242

Britain 53, 54–60, 75, 77–78, 83, 85, 124

see also Scotland; and other placenames

British Army 131, 243

18th Division 81, 125

53rd Infantry Brigade 79, 107

Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders 151, 310

Gordon Highlanders 311

Royal Engineers 151, 310, 311

Brough, Andrew (Jock) 309

contact with Len Hill in later life 306

evacuation of Singapore 151, 157

Fremantle 278, 279–86

General Verspijk, voyage to Fremantle 260–80

Japanese attack, Bangka Strait 163, 164, 165

Java 233, 234–36, 238, 239, 241–65

ML³¹⁰, based in Singapore 88, 101, 110, 111, 113, 114, 115, 120, 141

repairs to prahu, Katjangan Island 190

shore leave, Singapore 91, 94, 96, 122, 123, 133, 146, 147, 148

Tjibia Island 173, 176, 177, 181, 185–87, 192, 193

travel from Fremantle to Melbourne 286, 287–89

voyage in prahu from Tjibia Island to Merak 197, 198, 200–06, 208, 209, 212–16, 218, 220, 222, 223, 225, 227, 229, 230–31

Brouwer, Henk 262, 266, 267

Bull, Anne see Heise, Anne (née Bull)

Bull, Cecily 177, 297, 301, 302, 303

Bull, Herbert John (Johnny snr) 309

in Auckland, following the war 297–304, 306–307

evacuation of Singapore 144, 151, 152, 153, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 301

first meeting with Len and Tim 86–87

Fremantle 278, 279–86, 304

General Verspijk, voyage to Fremantle 260–80

godfather to Len Hill’s son 307

HDML1062 motor launch 99, 111

on HMS Scorpion 90

Japanese attack, Bangka Strait 164, 165, 166, 167, 169, 170

Java 233–65, 304, 311

ML³¹⁰, based in Singapore 128, 138, 140, 141, 142

photograph, Devonport, 1944 317

repairs to prahu, Katjangan Island 191

Solomon Islands service 299, 305

Tjibia Island 170–80, 181, 185–88, 192–94, 301

travel from Fremantle to Melbourne, Sydney and Auckland 286, 287, 288, 290, 291, 293–94

voyage in prahu from Tjibia Island to Merak 195, 196, 197–201, 202, 204–16, 218–31

Bull, Johnny (jnr) 301, 307

Cant, Glen 227–28, 229, 230, 231, 233, 265, 270, 278

Cape Town 45–46

Cazelet, Peter 148–49

Chan, Teh Ling (Charlie) 89–90, 111, 132, 133, 137, 158, 172, 180, 193

Christmas, Ernest 144, 152, 160, 161, 162, 228

Clark, Victor 144, 160, 161, 162

coast watch stations 7

Collins, John (Commodore, China Force, Royal Australian Navy) 231, 237–40, 244, 246, 250, 251, 280, 284, 304

convoys

DM.1 convoy 81–83

eastern coast of Britain and North Sea 60, 63–71

evacuation fleet from Tjilatjap to Fremantle 265–80

trans-Atlantic convoys 70

troopships, Singapore 125–27

US3 convoy 38, 45–46, 51–52, 53–54, 58

WS.12Z convoy 78–81

Davidson, Alistair 287

Davies, Richard 310

Davis, Sir Ernest 24

Davy, Charles 310

Dawi 195, 198, 201, 204–07, 213–15, 218, 220, 222, 223, 225, 227, 229, 230–31, 233

Depression 8–9

Dimmett, Auburn 311

Dittmer, George 53, 314

DM.1 convoy 81–83

Docherty, James 311

Dunkirk 53, 54, 59

Durban 79–81

Dutch East India Company 240, 241

Dutch East Indies Army (KNIL) 179, 193, 241, 249, 253–54

Dutch Navy 279

Dwight, Christine (née Hill) 307

Empress of Asia 126–27, 131

Empress of Britain 29

Empress of Japan 29

Endurance 19

Exeter 82, 245

Fairbanks, Charles 310

Fairmile motor launches 77–78, 87, 88, 100, 127–28, 136, 143, 149

see also ML310; ML311

80th Fairmile Flotilla 305, 315

Far East 75, 77, 78, 80, 85

see also Malaya; Singapore

Firth of Forth 62

Flower, Robert William 309

Fort William 74

Frampton, Pendarvis 151, 164, 172, 309

Freetown 46, 51–52, 79

Fremantle 35–38, 259, 264, 278, 279–86

Freyberg, Bernard 15

Galway, Lord 10

Gaspar Straits 204, 208

General Verspijk 260–80, 283–86

Gibson, Bert 310

Gifford, Jack 298

Ginn, James 310

Gneisenau 45

gold, Singapore 134–36

Graf Spee 245

Great War 15, 16, 18, 19, 20–22, 48, 71–72

Guadalcanal 299

Harbour Defence Motor Launches see HDML1062; HDML1063

Hauraki Gulf 2–3, 13, 24, 78, 307

Hayward, Jackie 309, 316

Alynbank 61, 70

Auckland waterfront and RNVR 2, 7

Japanese attack, Bangka Strait 164, 165, 167

ML³¹⁰, based in Singapore 87, 99, 111, 149, 152

Royal Navy training, and leave in Britain 74, 78

shore leave in Singapore 93–94, 95–96, 97, 122, 123, 130, 132

Tjibia Island 173, 182–83, 184–85, 188, 284

voyage to Britain 52, 53, 58

HDML1062 87, 88, 99, 109, 127–28, 144, 155, 158, 228

HDML1063 87, 88, 127–28, 144, 155, 160, 228, 242–43

Heenan, Patrick 159, 323

Heise, Anne (née Bull) 301, 302, 307

Heke, Ree 21–23, 25, 43, 47, 103

Heke, Richard 22

Henderson, Malcolm

evacuation of Singapore 144, 156

Japanese attack, Bangka Strait 164, 166, 168, 169–70

ML³¹⁰, based in Singapore 87, 88, 90, 102, 104, 118, 119, 128, 138, 142, 143, 309

Tjibia Island 173, 175, 191, 193, 291

Hendrick, Monk 298–302, 303, 304

Hermes 45

Hill, April 307

Hill, Arthur 10, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26–27, 28, 48, 103, 295–96

Hill, Ava 6, 9–10, 28, 39, 92–93, 133, 182, 203, 290–91, 307

Hill, Bill 6, 10, 18, 20, 22, 25, 26, 43, 48, 103, 303, 315

Hill, Christine see Dwight, Christine (née Hill)

Hill, Joy 10, 21, 22, 25, 26, 295

Hill, Kate 20, 21, 22, 23, 36, 37, 39, 48, 93, 103, 289

and Len’s departure for Britain 24–26, 27

and Len’s return home 294–95

Māori woman 10, 42, 43, 47, 49

Hill, Leonard Bruce (Len), personal life

in Auckland, 1943 315

in Auckland, following the war 302–08

‘being Pākehā’ 303

boyhood 1–7

contact with Jack Hulbert in later life 307

contact with Jock Brough in later life 306

Māori heritage 11, 22–23, 42–45, 46–51, 54–55, 56

photograph with Jack Hulbert 316

post-war business and retirement 305–06

reading 319–20

sailing 2–3, 6, 8, 307

trip to Singapore and Java, 1980s 306

Hill, Leonard Bruce (Len), war service 309

Alynbank 60–71, 128, 144

arrival in Britain 54–59

embarkation and voyage to Scotland 26–53, 211–12, 279

Fremantle 278, 279–86

General Verspijk, voyage to Fremantle 260–80

influence of uncles’ service and deaths in Great War 20–21, 22, 25, 40, 48, 103, 168, 187

Java 233–65

on leave in Scotland, January 1941 313

ML310 motor launch 87–90, 98–106, 107–21, 125–30, 136–45, 148–53, 155–60, 164–74

ML403 motor launch, Solomon Islands 305

photograph in uniform after Alynbank, before Singapore 316

promotion to able seaman 70

repairs to prahu, Katjangan Island 189–92

return home, 4 April 1942 294–96

in Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, New Zealand 7–10, 14–17, 18–26, 315

Royal Navy training 59–60, 74, 77–78, 317

Singapore 84–87, 90–98, 120–27, 130–36, 145–53

Tjibia Island 173–74, 175–89, 192–94

travel from Fremantle to Melbourne, Sydney and Auckland 286, 287–94

travel to Southampton and voyage to Singapore 71–76, 78–83, 313

voyage in prahu from Tjibia Island to Merak 195–231

Hill, Pat 302, 303

Hill, Tim

Alynbank 60–71, 144

arrival in Britain 55–56

early friendship with Len Hill 4–6, 9–10

embarkation and voyage to Scotland 27, 28, 30, 32, 35–36, 37–38, 40–42, 46, 53, 279, 313

godfather to Len Hill’s son 307

ML310 motor launch 87–90, 98–106, 107–21, 128–30, 138, 141–42, 144, 148–49

ML311 motor launch 152–53, 158

ML311 motor launch sinking, Bangka Strait 160–61, 169, 174, 182, 187, 189, 203, 283–85, 290, 307

post-war life 307

prisoner of war 307, 323

Royal Navy training 59–60, 74, 77–78, 317

Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve, Auckland Division 4, 6, 7, 8, 16, 18, 19, 20

Singapore 84–87, 90–98, 120–24, 130–36, 147–48

travel to Southampton 71–76

voyage to Singapore 78–83, 313

Hokke, C (Captain of Sirius) 234, 306

Honig, Wim 262, 264–65, 276

Hornby, Edward 310

Houston 245

Hulbert, Jack 2–3, 6, 7, 8, 23–24, 307, 316

IFF (‘Identify friend or foe’) 64

Indian Army, 45 Brigade 107

Innes, G 242–43

Japan

attacks on evacuation fleets from Tjilatjap 266–67, 268–69

Bangka Strait attacks 160–70

declaration of war 79

HDML attacks 228

Java 234, 238, 240–56, 258–64, 292

Malacca Straits attack by aircraft 82–83

Malaya 101–02, 107–08, 109, 111, 112, 113–17, 118–19, 160, 168, 242, 300

Merak bombing 224–26, 230–31, 234–35

ML310 boarding, Tjibia Island 175–79

ML311 motor launch sinking 160–63, 169, 182, 228

Palembang capture 234

Patrick Heenan’s spying 159, 323

Prince of Wales and Repulse sinking 80, 159

Singapore 83–84, 87, 98–99, 101, 104–06, 112, 120–27, 133–34, 144–46, 149, 159, 229, 252–53

Sumatra 234

Java 144, 149, 157, 221, 223, 231, 233–64, 280, 283, 292

Java Sea 209–21, 238

Battle of the Java Sea 264

Johncock, T H S (Johnno)

ML310 motor launch 88, 111, 142, 145, 146

prisoner of war 309

repairs to prahu, Katjangan Island 190, 211, 214

shore leave, Singapore 132, 134–36

Tjibia Island 173, 180–81, 183, 185, 186, 187, 188, 192, 193, 194, 195–96, 239, 285

voyage to Singapore 81, 313

Johnson, Ronnie 88, 309

Johor Strait 127–28, 129, 138–40

Jupiter 252

Katjangan Island 160, 186, 188–92

Keeling, Ralph 310

Kindred, Jack

Alynbank 70

ML311 motor launch 88, 108, 137–38, 152, 153, 158

ML311 motor launch sinking, Bangka Strait 160–61, 169, 174, 182, 188

Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve 7

Royal Navy training and leave in Britain 74, 75, 78

shore leave, Singapore 95, 122, 123, 130–36

voyage to Britain 53

voyage to Singapore 80, 81, 313

KNIL (Dutch East Indies Army) 179, 193, 241, 249, 253–54

Kota 236–41

Kranji River 139

Kuttabul 290–91

Laboe 204–07, 209

Laburnum 84–87, 99, 120, 142

Leander 29

Lepar Island 204–07

Little, John 310

London 57–59, 71

Luckett, John 310

Malacca Straits 82–83, 126

Malaya 83, 100–02, 107–08, 109, 111–20, 127–28, 160, 168, 242, 249, 300

Māori

East Coast 49

inequalities 48, 49–50

land confiscations 49

tikanga 50–51

Māori Battalion (28th Battalion, 2NZEF) 27–28, 31, 36–38, 40–45, 48, 49–50, 52, 53

Māori concert parties 45, 52

Maryborough 227–29, 265, 268, 269, 270, 273, 277, 278, 279

Mata Hari 163

Mayfair Hotel, Singapore 93–97, 132–33, 145–47, 148, 203

Maynard, Stanley G F 87, 90, 99, 102, 109, 116, 117, 118, 119, 121, 128

McArthur, Alistair 7, 316

McMillan, Colin 99, 111, 128, 144, 158, 228

McVinnie brothers 7, 37, 42, 55, 56

Mediterranean Fleet 71

Merak 225–31, 234, 235

military police

Java 240–41, 244, 250

Singapore 135, 150, 152

United States Navy 293

Wellington 30

minesweepers 74, 305

Mission to Seamen, Auckland 9

ML310 motor launch

crew left on Tjibia Island to await rescue 190–94, 195, 237–38, 303–04, 305

departure of rescue party on repaired native prahu 185–96

evacuation of Singapore 149–53, 155–60, 301

Japanese attack, Bangka Strait and Tuju Islands 164–74

Japanese boarding, off Tjibia Island 175–79

Malaya 99–106, 107–19

‘On Active Service’ radio serial episode 319

repair attempt and Japanese bombing, Tjibia Island 180–85, 190–91

Singapore 87–90, 98–99, 120–21, 127–30, 136–45, 148–49

ML311 motor launch

evacuation of Singapore 151, 152–53, 155, 158

Japanese attack and sinking, Bangka Strait 160–63, 169, 182, 228, 290, 307

Malaya 99, 100–03, 107–09, 112

Singapore 87, 88, 89, 99, 121, 129, 130, 136, 137–38, 140, 144

ML403 motor launch 305

Morewa 23–24

Moses, Charles 264, 280

Muar 100–01, 107, 112, 128

Muntok 163, 165, 197

Naval Base, Devonport 8

‘Naval Mobilization Emergency Regulations’ 7

Neptune 71, 74, 77, 80

Neville, Bill (Lofty) 123, 142, 143

Alynbank service 60–71

arrival in Britain 55–56, 59

embarkation and voyage to Scotland 27, 28, 32, 35–36, 37–38, 39, 40, 42, 43–44, 46, 52, 53

photograph in uniform after Alynbank, before Singapore 316

Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve 4, 5, 6, 7, 17, 18, 19, 315

Royal Navy training 59–60, 74, 317

Solomon Islands 305

training on Wakakura 23

travel to Southampton and training on Attack 71–76

New Zealand Division

2nd, Second World War 74

Great War, known as ‘the Silent Division’ 71–72

New Zealand Expeditionary Force, 2 nd

First New Zealand Echelon 19, 20

Second New Zealand Echelon 20, 29–33, 35–53, 86, 314

Ngata, Apirana 31, 49–50

Ngāti Porou 49

Nicolaas (Dutch Commandant) 195, 197, 198, 201, 204–08, 212, 214–15, 218, 219, 222, 223, 225, 227, 229, 230–31, 233, 254, 258

North Sea 60, 70–71, 168

Oldnall, Herb 310

Oudenaarde, Captain (of General Verspijk) 261–62, 264, 266, 267, 269, 270, 275, 283–84, 286

Paddon, William 309

Palmer, Charles (jnr) 14

Palmer, Charles (snr) 14–17

Pangkal Pinang 199, 200

Parata, Haami 40–45, 48–50, 54–55, 207, 296

influence on Len Hill 46–51, 55, 56, 65, 104, 153, 168, 196, 202, 209, 210, 303

Parit Jawa 109

Percival, Arthur 129, 136–37, 150, 159

Perth 245

Pool, Richard

Course for Disaster (1987) 321–22

evacuation of Singapore 143–44, 151, 156

injured hand 157–58, 163, 164, 168

Japanese atack, Bangka Strait 168, 170

ML310 motor launch Gunnery Officer 138, 140, 142

prisoner of war 310

Raffles Hotel 130, 132

repairs to prahu, Katjangan Island 190

Royal Navy Local Operations, Singapore 109, 110, 127, 128

Tjibia Island 170, 171, 172, 175, 178, 180, 181, 185, 186, 187, 192, 193–94

Portland, Royal Navy training base 74, 77–78

Portsmouth 54, 59, 60

Prince of Wales 80, 85, 159

Prize 19

Pulford, Conway 150, 152, 156, 159, 164, 166, 167–68, 171, 172, 180, 305, 310

Queen Mary 35, 45, 51

Raffles Hotel, Singapore 83, 130–31, 132, 306

Repulse 80, 85, 109, 159, 160

Richardson, Warrant Boatswain 310

Robinson, Alfred 309

Robinson, James 310

Rose, Angus 144

Royal Air Force 121, 159, 310

Royal Australian Naval Volunteer Reserve 87

Royal Australian Navy (RAN) 82, 226–29, 237, 243, 279, 285, 288, 310

Commodore, China Force 237–40, 244, 246, 250, 251, 280, 284

Garden Island base, Sydney 290–91

Royal Australian Navy Volunteer Reserve 309

Royal Indian Navy 82

Royal Marines 107, 149, 151, 172, 310

Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, New Zealand 6–10, 13–15

Auckland Division Headquarters, Ngapona 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 14, 19, 20, 80, 86

Auckland Division social events 9

disestablishment 16–18

Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, New Zealand, Reservists’ war service

see also Royal New Zealand Navy Volunteer Reserve; and names of individual Reservists

on Alynbank 60–71, 128

arrival in Britain 54–59

embarkation and voyage to Scotland on Aquitania 26–53, 314

‘Mobilisation Fiasco’ 18

parade of inspection 10

Royal Navy training, St Vincent, Gosport 59–60, 317

signatures on concert programme, Aquitania 314

training in Britain 59–60

training in New Zealand 18–19, 23

Royal Navy, New Zealand Division 15, 19, 23–24, 31

Royal Navy (RN) 16

Alynbank anti-aircraft ship 60–61, 128

Coastal forces 78, 84–85, 88, 109

Fremantle 279

Java 242, 243, 248, 252

Laburnum, Volunteer Naval Reserve base in Singapore 84–87, 99, 120, 142

Mediterranean Fleet 71

Royal Fleet Auxiliary 234

sailors on ML310 87–88, 165, 237, 309, 310

Scheme B 20

Scheme Y 87

Singapore Naval Base 120–21, 127, 129

training, Portland 74, 77–78

training, St Christopher, Fort William 74, 77

training, St Vincent, Gosport 59–60, 317

Royal Netherlands Navy 82

Royal New Zealand Navy, establishment 73

Royal New Zealand Navy Volunteer Reserve 237, 247, 255, 259, 298–99, 309, 310

see also Fairmile motor launches; Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, New Zealand

Singapore 84–87, 90–98, 120–27, 130–36, 145–53

training in Britain 74, 77–78, 317

Royal New Zealand Yacht Squadron 8, 86, 297

Russell, James Edward 309

sailing, Auckland and Hauraki Gulf 2–3, 8, 9, 24, 86

Sanders, William 19

Scammell, Leonard 311

Scapa Flow 60, 62, 63

Schief, Stan 310

Scorpion 90

Scotland 53, 54, 69–70, 77, 78

Second World War

declaration of war 7

departure of New Zealand troops 19–20, 23–24, 26–33

training and mobilisation of New Zealand forces 13–19, 23

Shackleton, Ernest 19

Shrimpton, Henry 314

Simson, Ivan 137

Singapore 74, 75, 77, 79, 80, 81, 119, 229, 300

evacuation 125, 144–53, 155–60, 252, 253, 258, 264, 305

Fairmile crews’ shore leave 90–98, 121–24, 130–36, 146–48

finding of crates of gold 134–36

Japanese attacks 83–84, 87, 98–99, 101, 104–06, 112, 120–27, 133–34, 144–46, 149, 159, 229, 252–53

motor launches based in 87–90, 99–100, 102, 105, 120, 125, 126–30, 136, 142, 144–45, 148–53

Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve base Laburnum 84–87, 99, 120, 142

Singapore Harbour Board 87

Sirius 229–30, 235, 306

Smethwick, Hector 310

Smith, Norman 310

Smith, William 310

Sneddon, James 310

Solomon Islands 299, 305, 315

Southampton 71, 72–73

Spooner, Ernest 322

evacuation of Singapore 125, 149–51, 152, 156, 157–58

Japanese attack, Bangka Strait 164, 166, 169

and Patrick Heenan 159

Tjibia Island 170–72, 173, 178, 179, 180–81, 185, 186, 188, 191–95, 199, 237–38, 245, 305, 309

Tuju Islands 163

St Christopher, Royal Navy training base, Fort William 74, 77

St Vincent, Royal Navy training base, Gosport 59–60

Stonor, Ian 151, 165, 170–71, 172, 173, 175, 179, 180, 181, 310, 323

Straits Settlements 83, 128–29, 137

see also Malacca Straits; Singapore

Strathallan 294

Stride, Reg 310

Sully, Samuel 310

Sumatra 82, 157, 160, 162, 166, 208, 209, 219, 234

Sunda Strait 221–24, 243, 265

Sussex 79

Swift, Harry 81, 93, 95, 99, 313

Tangaroa (sea) 210, 212, 222, 269

Tanjung Priok 235, 241, 243

Tāwhirimātea (wind) 209, 210, 221–22, 269

Texas National Guard 242

Thomas, Shenton 137

Titore 11, 22

Tjibia Island 170–74, 175–89, 284, 301

Tjilatjap 231, 233, 234, 238, 239, 240, 243, 245, 250, 251, 252–53, 254, 255, 257–65

Townsend, Edwin Richard 309

Tucker, Edward 309

Tuju (Seven) Islands 160, 163, 164, 166, 169–70, 195, 196

see also Katjangan Island; Tjibia Island

Tūmatauenga (god of war) 210

Turner, Jack 310

Tweedale, Alan 309

United States Navy 279, 292–93, 297

Ururoa 11, 22, 23, 48, 202

US3 convoy 38, 45–46, 51–52, 53–54, 58

Vampire 82

Vendetta 228

Victoria Cross 19

Victory 59

Wakakura 23, 39, 211

Warren, Alan 107

Wavell, Archibald 129

Welman, A E 77

Westforce 118

Williams, Henry, ‘The Mission boat accompanying a New Zealand war expedition’ 11, 22, 23

World War I see Great War

World War II see Second World War

Worsley, Frank 19

Wright, Reg 310

WS.12Z convoy 78–81

yacht clubs, Auckland 2

Yarra 264, 268–69