The air was full of beautiful birdsong, and Jim could hear the scamper and chatter of the monkeys as they ran across the roof gathering the fruit that had fallen from the mango trees growing behind the hospital. It was the first day of November and barely past sunrise, but the heat was already rising, and by noon it would be unbearable – the sun glaring from a molten sky until every living thing was silenced and stilled into torpor.
Jim had spent almost three months in the military hospital – most of it dead to the world under heavy sedation – but it felt as if he’d been here for half a lifetime. Now he was at last on the mend, he was becoming bored and restless; eager to be with his regiment again even though it meant leaving this peaceful, orderly haven for the chaos and noise of battle.
He stood naked to the waist at the basin in the large communal shower room and ran the razor over the dark stubble on his chin. When he’d first recovered enough to get out of bed, his legs had been so weak he could barely walk, let alone stand for any length of time, and he’d had to rely on the nurses and a walking stick to help him get about the place. It had come as a terrible shock to see himself in the bathroom mirror that first time, for the fever had ravaged him and he hadn’t recognised the gaunt old man staring back at him with sunken eyes in a drawn face, his skin the colour and texture of old newspaper, the bones of his skull visible beneath it.
Now, as he looked in the mirror, the sight wasn’t quite so shocking, and he was almost back to the old Jim despite the glints of silver in his black hair and the cobwebs of fine lines at the corners of his eyes. He’d filled out and could no longer count his ribs, although the muscles he’d been so proud of still needed a good bit more work, and the scars on his back were inclined to itch.
He finished shaving and washed his face before easing off the light bandaging to check on the progress of those scars. The main one ran in a thin arc from beneath his armpit and over his ribs to his hip bone; the lesser one branching off at an angle towards the base of his spine. They were still a little red, the scars left by the stiches like punctuation marks on either side, but they looked impressive enough to show off to the girls when he finally got back home, and prove to his father that he too could have an operation to retrieve the shrapnel that still bothered him.
Yet Jim doubted Ron would heed his advice, for he was a stubborn old devil and seemed attached to that shrapnel for some strange reason. He replaced the dressing, dropped the towel from around his waist and pulled on pants, a singlet and shorts – the customary attire for all the patients in this heat. The surgeon had told him that not all the shrapnel could be removed at the field hospital due to the infection he’d picked up whilst waiting to be airlifted out. It had therefore been necessary to perform the second operation on his arrival here. He’d had a lucky escape, that was for certain, and if he hadn’t been poleaxed by that damned septic fever and kidney infection, he’d have been out of here weeks ago.
His mellow mood dimmed as he thought of Ernie, whose luck had run out through Jim’s carelessness and gung-ho belief that nothing could touch them after they’d survived those torturous weeks of the Japanese barrage. The shrapnel had severed Ernie’s spinal cord, and the poor wee man would spend what was left of his life in a wheelchair. The knowledge that Ernie didn’t blame him, and his wife had written to thank him for saving him that day, simply made him feel all the more guilty.
He shoved his bare feet into the rubber sandals that everyone wore – apart from the nurses – and headed back into the ward where the nurses were attending to those who were still bedridden. The injuries were many and varied in severity, and he knew from his time here that not all of them would survive.
It was a depressing thought, and as he walked through the French doors that opened onto the veranda he wanted nothing more than to fall into a dreamless sleep – something that had been denied him ever since he’d been taken off the heavy medication. Yet he knew that if he slept the nightmares would come, and he’d be haunted by the sounds, smells and horrors of that flooded battlefield in which so many of his comrades now lay buried. Asleep or awake, the images came anyway, and he’d yet to discover how to blot them out. Perhaps once he was discharged and fully occupied with something useful again, he’d find respite.
Jim greeted the other injured men who were lounging in rattan chairs beneath the ceiling fans, playing cards, reading or listening to the wireless. There were others playing croquet on the lawn with rather more enthusiasm than skill, whilst Indian servants chased away the thieving monkeys, and the orderlies tended the potted plants and hanging baskets which swung gently in the draught of the spinning fans.
The orderlies were mostly late middle-aged Italian POWs who’d been captured in Africa and brought to India for the duration to assist the overworked nursing staff in the many military hospitals that had sprung up since the start of the Burma campaign. Despite the fact that Italy had changed sides the previous year and declared war on Germany, they were now stuck here, but they seemed happy enough to carry on their duties, and Jim suspected they were relieved not to have been roped into the British Army to rejoin the fighting.
He headed for his favourite chair, which was placed at the end of the veranda beneath a fan and in the shade of a vast palm tree.
‘Oh, no you don’t,’ said Staff Nurse Fitzpatrick in her broad Australian accent as she bustled up to him with purpose before he could put his behind on the chair. ‘You’re supposed to be at the parade ground for your morning exercises.’
Jim gave her his most appealing smile. ‘Do I have to?’
The plump little nurse looked up at him, her grey eyes warm with humour. ‘There’s not much wrong with you, Jim Reilly, that a good dose of exercise wouldn’t cure.’
He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he admired her deliciously rounded figure. ‘I can think of better ways of getting exercise than running round a track with an army PT instructor bellowing at me.’
She shook her head, the twinkle in her eyes still present. ‘I’m sure you can, but if I had a quid for every time that’s been suggested to me, I’d be rich and living the high life in Sydney. Now move that skinny backside and get out from under my feet.’
‘You’re a hard woman, Sarah,’ he sighed. ‘What’s a man got to do to get any sympathy around here?’
She chuckled. ‘You’ve had all the sympathy you need, so don’t try and pull a fast one. Get to the parade ground.’ With that, she turned on her heel and sashayed off, the starched apron crackling as her well-rounded hips moved delightfully beneath the thin cotton dress.
Every man on the veranda watched her appreciatively until she went out of sight, and then returned with some lethargy to what they’d been doing before. It was incredibly hot, even in the shade, and the fans were making little headway in lowering the temperature.
Jim drank a cup of tea and then reluctantly went to fetch his plimsolls and a towel before heading for the parade ground which fronted the nearby army barracks. He’d have preferred to stay on the veranda than go through the torture of these morning exercises, but at least he was capable of doing something physical, which was more than could be said for most of the other men in the hospital, and he knew that once he’d begun the seemingly endless round of running, jumping and press-ups, he’d feel a lot more positive.
The barracks served as a staging post for men coming off sick leave to prepare them for their return to the jungles of Burma and Siam. Discipline was rigidly enforced by the officers who understood the necessity of getting the men fighting fit again before they were sent back into action. There was even a curfew at sundown to keep them from the bars and dubious delights of the nearest town which was a half-hour truck ride away.
Jim paused in the welcome shade of towering trees to lace up his plimsolls and regard the barracks which he suspected would soon be his home. The wooden huts that housed the lower ranks ran in an orderly line along a cinder path edged by big, white-painted boulders and a low picket fence. A large mess hall and ablutions block stood between the huts and the administration offices, which had garages, stores and workshops behind them; and the officers’ quarters and mess were isolated at the far end by a magnificent hibiscus hedge, ablaze with plate-sized scarlet and yellow blooms. A broad, verdant lawn ran the length of it all and was constantly manicured and watered by a small army of Indian servants.
The parade ground was an unshaded, stark square of flattened, baked red earth which seemed to shimmer with the heat, even at this early hour – and waiting impatiently there was Sergeant Major Bourne in full, pristine tropical uniform.
Seeing the other men leave their quarters at a run, Jim hung his towel on the nearest tree branch and went to join them as the sergeant major began to roar at them to get a ruddy move on. It seemed rank didn’t count when it came to physical jerks, for Jim recognised a first lieutenant, two captains and a major lining up with him.
Bourne was a robust Yorkshireman of indeterminate age, with a bristling moustache and brutal haircut, a voice like a foghorn and a bearing that defied any disobedience or show of aggression. He’d been an army physical trainer for most of his career, was the holder of several prestigious boxing titles, and well known for his lack of humour. He was, therefore, not a man to mess with.
Jim stood to attention with the others, and once Bourne was satisfied they were all present and correct, the torture began.
Bourne marched back and forth bellowing orders, a swagger stick tucked beneath his muscled arm, seemingly untouched by the rising heat or the swarms of flies that pestered everyone as they sweated and strained through the exercises.
An hour later saw Jim drenched in sweat and out of breath, but the ache in his muscles felt strangely rewarding, and as he flexed and stretched them out, he knew he was definitely on the way to a full recovery.
The fifteen men stood to attention trying to ignore the buzzing insects that crawled over their sweating faces as they waited to be dismissed.
‘Warrant Officer Reilly, you will stay at attention,’ shouted Bourne. ‘The rest of you are dismissed.’
Jim wondered what he’d done to attract this unwanted attention and tried not to flinch as a fly explored his face and tried to crawl up his nose.
‘At ease,’ rumbled Bourne, coming to stand almost toe to toe with Jim, who was in fact his senior in rank. ‘Get showered, changed into uniform and have a haircut,’ he barked. ‘The CO is expecting you in his office at eleven hundred hours prompt.’
‘Yes, Sergeant Major,’ said Jim, perplexed by this summons. ‘Any idea what he wants me for?’
‘I am not privy to my superior’s thought processes, Reilly,’ he replied tersely. ‘You’ll find out soon enough. Dismissed.’
Jim watched him march smartly away as if he was at some military parade. ‘Pompous ass,’ he muttered without rancour as he grabbed his towel and headed for the hospital showers, his mind still occupied with what his CO might have in store for him. With any luck it would be a discharge from the hospital and a new posting – but if he’d heard about his illicit dealings in whisky with the local Indian trader, he could be for the high jump.
Feeling cool and relaxed after a cold shower, he pulled on a fresh uniform shirt and clean, knee-length shorts. The long socks and heavy boots were cumbersome after being free of them for weeks, and he was sweating again as he grabbed his battered, sweat-stained slouch hat and went back to the barracks for a haircut.
Jim suffered the indignity of the army barber’s enthusiasm for almost scalping him and, emerging back into the glaring sun, he rubbed his hand ruefully over what was left of his hair before ramming on his hat. He tried to ignore the enticing smell of curry and the rumbling of his stomach as he walked to his CO’s office. Hopefully the old man wouldn’t keep him for too long, for it had been hours since breakfast, and he was starving.
Jim had only seen the brigadier from a distance, but he’d become quite a legend around here if the stories about him were true. Brigadier Ffaulkes-Hubert was tall and lean with the leathery complexion of a man who’d spent his life in the tropics. He’d come out of retirement at the age of sixty to release a younger officer for battle duty and to take command of this out-of-the-way military post where any ambition for promotion was doomed.
Ffaulkes-Hubert was regarded with great affection by everyone other than his junior officers, who found his absent-mindedness and leniency towards the men extremely tiresome. He was not a man who stood on ceremony and could often be found sharing a curry and beer with the Indian servants and lower ranks. And yet he was tolerated because his military record was exemplary, and he told the most wonderful stories of his youthful adventures during the Second Boer War.
The brigadier’s door was open to garner the slightest breeze, and as Jim’s shadow fell across his desk he looked up from the tea tray before him and smiled. ‘Come in, come in,’ he encouraged with a wave of his hand. ‘It’s far too hot to be standing out there.’
Jim stepped inside and stood to attention beneath the whirring ceiling fan as he saluted. ‘Warrant Officer Reilly reporting, sir.’
The brigadier saluted back rather distractedly, his focus returning to the tea tray. ‘Sit down, young man,’ he said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea and a ginger biscuit?’
‘Thank you, sir, that would be very welcome,’ he replied, taking off his hat and sitting cautiously on the edge of the rattan chair. He took the delicate cup and saucer, helped himself to a biscuit, and waited for the old boy to tell him why he’d been summonsed.
The brigadier drank his tea and then spent some time lighting his pipe. ‘So, young man,’ he said between puffs, ‘what was it you wanted to see me about?’
‘I do believe, sir,’ said Jim carefully, ‘that it was you who wished to see me.’
Grey eyebrows shot up and faded blue eyes widened. ‘Did I? Now why would that be, I wonder?’ His pipe was discarded as he shuffled through the drift of paper and folders on his desk, seemingly at a loss. ‘What was your name again?’
‘Warrant Officer James Michael Reilly,’ said Jim, returning the empty cup to the tray and trying to see if he could spot his name on anything amidst the disorder.
‘Ah, yes. I seem to remember that I have some interesting news for you,’ said the older man, still hunting through the mess. ‘Now what was it?’ he muttered crossly.
Jim swallowed his impatience and was finally rewarded with a beaming smile from the brigadier as he unearthed a brown cardboard folder.
‘Here we are,’ he said triumphantly. ‘I knew it was somewhere.’ He opened the folder, perched his glasses on the end of his nose and peered short-sightedly at the papers inside it. ‘Ah, yes,’ he murmured. ‘Now I remember.’ He took off his glasses and stood, offering his hand to Jim. ‘Congratulations, young man. Thoroughly deserved, I’m sure.’
Jim quickly stood to shake the proffered hand, still none the wiser as to what the old boy was on about. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, ‘but what is it exactly that I’ve earned?’
‘Oh, didn’t I say?’ The brigadier shook his head. ‘It’s the heat, you know. After fifty years in India and Africa, it’s inclined to addle the brain somewhat.’ He stood there smiling at Jim, having once again lost his train of thought.
‘May I know why you’re congratulating me, sir?’ Jim persisted.
‘Oh, yes, of course. You’ve been mentioned in dispatches for showing extreme courage whilst under enemy fire, with a recommendation that you be commissioned immediately to Second Lieutenant – a position I believe you held during the First World War.’ He gave Jim a beaming smile. ‘Jolly good show, eh what?’
Jim nodded without great enthusiasm as the brigadier began opening and shutting his desk drawers. An MiD was really something to write home about, and as it would be announced in the newspapers, the whole of Cliffehaven would hear about it. But despite the substantial pay rise that went with the promotion, he was not looking forward to rejoining the officer ranks – in fact he’d turned down the offer when he’d been called up and had been avoiding such a thing ever since.
His thoughts were interrupted by the brigadier slamming a drawer and advancing on him with a couple of shoulder tabs bearing a single ‘pip’ and a small box. ‘You’ll have to get these sorted out,’ he said gruffly, handing over the tabs. ‘Now stand still, my boy. It’s my duty to pin this on you. Don’t want to stab you, what?’
Jim stood to attention again, his alarm rising as the unsteady fingers fumbled to open the pin on the back of the bronze oak leaf award.
‘May I offer to help with that, sir?’ he asked.
‘It is fiddly, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be,’ the older man muttered, handing it over. ‘Probably best you do it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Jim pinned it to his shirt collar and stuffed the box and epaulettes into the pocket of his shorts. ‘It’s an honour to wear it.’
The older man stood in dreamy silence as he admired the badge.
Jim realised he was off in his own world again, and if he didn’t say something, they could be here all day. ‘Permission to leave, sir?’
The brigadier snapped out of whatever he was thinking about. ‘Um, no, there was something else …’ He leafed through the folder and drew out a very important-looking certificate and a sheaf of papers.
Jim stood there in a lather of impatience as the older man unearthed his glasses again and took forever to read through everything.
‘Ah yes,’ he said eventually. ‘This is the certification of your MiD, and these are your new orders. You’ll see that you are to take two weeks’ leave from tomorrow at six hundred hours and return here for training before you rejoin your regiment which I believe is still in Burma.’ He handed over the paperwork and smiled. ‘Marvellous place, Burma. I was stationed there for a while back in 1913, and I remember …’
Jim listened politely to the rambling reminiscence and when the brigadier paused for breath, he broke in. ‘That’s very interesting, Brigadier. Thank you for taking the time to tell me about my award and commission.’ He nodded towards the desk. ‘But I can see you’re very busy, so I won’t keep you any longer.’
The brigadier blinked as if surprised to see the mound of paper on his desk. ‘Goodness me, so I am. Well, it was a pleasure to meet you.’ He pumped Jim’s hand again with surprising firmness. ‘Good luck and Godspeed, young fellow.’
Jim saluted and finally escaped to a quiet, cool corner of the hospital gardens to admire the citation which had been signed by the King himself, and to read through the orders. Transport had been arranged to get him to a hotel that had been requisitioned by the army for the rest and recuperation of injured officers. The name of the place was unpronounceable, but he would be free to come and go as he pleased – which was a huge relief, because he didn’t fancy being holed up with a bunch of upper-class twits for two weeks.
He read the citation again which had been awarded to him for his valour in saving a comrade whilst under fire during the Japanese bombardment that had seen him hospitalised and Ernie crippled for life. Jim gave a deep sigh. He hadn’t earned the damned thing – if anyone deserved it, it should have been Ernie.
The siren scents of the lunchtime curry drifted from the veranda. Jim unpinned the badge and returned it to its box. He would say nothing to the others, he decided, for there was no point in bragging about something he hadn’t deserved. As for the commission, it would probably be wise to keep that to himself, too. Officers had been the butt of all their jokes, and he didn’t want to spoil his last night here by revealing that he’d been forced to change sides.
He reached the veranda and of course there were questions, for it wasn’t every day that one of them had to wear uniform and get a haircut. He replied that he’d been passed fit and was going on leave the following day, which seemed to satisfy them.
He went to his locker and tucked away his orders and citation along with the box containing the oak leaf badge, and then changed back into his singlet and shorts. Arranging with one of the more senior Indian servants to sort out his uniform shirts so the epaulettes could be attached, he slipped the man a few rupees to ensure his silence.
Once he’d achieved all this, he returned to the veranda to tuck into the spicy curry and delicious saffron rice, which he washed down with icy cold Indian Pale Ale. The heat was at its fiercest and the talk was desultory, each man too drained of energy to engage in conversation, and it wasn’t long before they drifted off to take their siestas.
Jim was quite happy to eat alone, and as he mopped up the remains of his meal with the warm flatbread chapattis, and called for another beer, he planned the rest of his day.
He felt energised suddenly, and knew he wouldn’t sleep despite the debilitating heat, so he’d go to the surprisingly well-stocked hospital library and dig out a map of Burma to try and find the place he was going to. It was probably up in the hills where the temperature wasn’t quite so fierce, or if he was really lucky, it could be on the coast and he’d get to swim in the sea. There would be time before supper to write to Peggy with his news, and then he’d pack his few belongings, sell off the last of his illicit stock of whisky, shower again and enjoy several more beers once the sun went down.
He rose from the table and stretched luxuriously. It would be a very early start tomorrow, but he doubted he’d sleep much, for there was an excitement in him for what lay ahead that he hadn’t felt in months, and he was eager to be on the move and feel useful again.