Torrance and his companions retreated into the kitchens. He peered through one of the portholes in the double doors, craning his head for a glimpse of Japanese soldiers entering the dining room. He could not see them yet, but he could hear an NCO barking orders somewhere.
‘Back door?’ he asked.
‘Aye, this way.’ Rossi led them between the cooking ranges, into a utilitarian corridor and then outside to where they startled a troop of monkeys picking over the contents of an overturned rubbish bin. The animals scattered into a patch of scrub at the back of the hotel, shrieking and hooting. Torrance was so startled that he had levelled his Thompson and almost squeezed the trigger before he realised they were only monkeys.
Using some hibiscus bushes for cover, they made their way around the side of the hotel to where they could see the tanks parked on the street in front.
‘How do we get past that lot?’ asked Kerr.
‘We go round them,’ said Sheridan. ‘Across the road and over the railway tracks. There’s another road to the south on the other side.’
‘I’ll go first,’ said Torrance. ‘The rest of you, wait for my signal.’ He broke from cover, dashing across the north-bound lane of the dual carriageway and ducking down behind some rose bushes growing in the middle of the grassy central reservation. The nearest tank was only fifty yards away, but the commander squatting on the turret was more interested in having a conversation with an infantry officer.
Torrance beckoned the others. Bent double, they dashed across to join him behind the rose bushes, ducking down as a section of infantrymen doubled past, havelocks flapping. Once the patter of their crêpe-soled boots on the tarmac had faded into the night, Torrance raised his head cautiously, made sure no one else was looking in his direction, then threaded his way through the bushes, dashing across the road to take cover in the shadows of one of the arches at the south end of the railway station. He stepped out into the moonlight to signal for the others to follow him, then withdrew into the shadows again.
When they joined him, he set off once more, vaulting over a low white fence and dashing across a greensward beneath a row of palm trees. Reaching the south end of the engine shed, he slithered down a grassy embankment between the shed and a linesmen’s hut, where a wire fence – not even barbed – was the only thing separating him from the end of the platform. The others joined him. Here at the foot of the embankment, at least, they were hidden from the view of the soldiers on Victoria Avenue, as long as they kept their heads down. One after another, they scrambled over the fence on to the platform.
‘Nearly made it,’ said Torrance. ‘Now all we have to do is—’
He broke off as a sustained, eldritch squealing approached. Glancing into the shadows of the engine shed, he saw a pair of headlights approaching along the railway line. The vehicle was too small to be a train, though: he could see the red glow of tail lights at the other end. The noise put Torrance in mind of a London Tube approaching.
He tried the door to the hut, but it was padlocked, so he smashed at the hasp with the butt of his Thompson. The wood splintered around the screws and the lock fell off, hasp and all. He jerked the door open. ‘Get in, quick!’
Kerr, Sheridan, Grant, Rossi and MacLeod scrambled into the hut. Torrance followed them in. In the darkness, someone upset what sounded like a box full of large nuts and bolts, and they cascaded to the floor.
‘Shhhh!’ Holding the door ajar, he peered out to see the vehicle moving along the tracks emerge from the shadows beneath the engine-shed roof, revealing a two-tonne Isuzu lorry. Staring at it in bewilderment, he realised it had two pairs of axles: one, currently raised, with ordinary-tyred wheels for running on roads, and another, now lowered, flanged to run on railway tracks. The Isuzu squealed to a halt, and a Japanese soldier jumped down from the cab. He barked an order, and another six Japanese soldiers appeared from the back of the lorry. Holding their rifles at the high port, they dashed across the tracks to take up positions on the far side of the railway line. Only the driver lingered by the Isuzu, pausing to smoke a cigarette.
‘Now what do we do?’ demanded Kerr.
‘I dunno,’ said Torrance. ‘Wait for them to move out, I s’pose.’
‘What if they dinna move out? What if they stay there all night?’
Torrance said nothing. He was out of ideas. Of all the places in the station the Isuzu could have parked, it had to pull up opposite the linesmen’s hut. Of all the rotten, sodding luck. Of all the…
And then a smile spread across his face, and he nodded at the lorry. ‘We’ll take Duke Ellington’s advice.’
‘Eh?’
‘Take the A-Train.’ Stooping, he hurriedly unlaced his boots, tying the laces together so he could drape them around his neck. Doffing his balmoral, he rolled it up and slipped it inside his shirt. Fumbling on the floor, he picked up one of the bolts, then opened the door just enough to squeeze his arm through and lobbed the bolt over the Isuzu. It struck one of the rails beyond with a noisy clank.
The Japanese soldier standing by the lorry heard it. He levelled his rifle into the darkness, calling out a challenge in Japanese.
Torrance was already dashing across the platform on stockinged feet. He dropped down to the rail bed behind the Isuzu, raising his head cautiously to make sure there was no one else in the back. Seeing it was empty, he moaned softly.
Crêpe-soled boots scrunched on the gravel between the sleepers as the driver made his way along the side of the lorry. Torrance slipped a hand in his pocket and drew out his flick knife. He pressed the stud and the blade sprang into view.
The Japanese came around the corner of the tailgate. Torrance caught him by the throat and stabbed him in the stomach, driving the blade in all the way to the haft and ripping sideways. He felt hot blood splash on his hand. The Japanese gave a groan and crumpled. Torrance followed him down, wiping the blade of his knife on the dead man’s tunic and closing it, slipping it back in his pocket. He took the dead man’s field cap, putting it on. It was too small to go on properly, and he had to perch it on the back of his head.
Torrance heard a voice behind him. The words were Japanese, the tone challenging. He whirled to see an officer standing on the platform above him, a magazine pistol that looked a lot like a Luger in his fist. As Torrance raised his hands, Rossi stepped out of the shadows behind the officer, clamping one hand over his mouth, grabbing the wrist of his gun hand with the other. As the two of them struggled, Torrance clambered on to the platform and fumbled in his pocket for his knife. Drawing it out, he pressed the stud and drove the blade into the officer’s side. With Rossi’s help, he lowered the corpse to the platform.
A voice shouted something in Japanese from inside the engine shed. Torrance ignored it, opening the door to the Isuzu’s cab and swinging himself in behind the wheel. He pulled out the choke, hit the starter and eased down the accelerator with his foot. The engine turned over, sputtered and died. Shit, what if he could not get it started? He tried again; once again it sputtered out.
Rossi had already signalled to the others to come and join them: they were dashing across from the linesmen’s hut. A Japanese NCO standing further down the platform was staring at him. Torrance could only hope that with the undersized cap perched on his head, he was no more than a vague outline in the shadows of the cab. He gave the NCO a friendly wave and hit the starter again.
‘Come on, you bleedin’ piece of Jap junk!’ he muttered under his breath, easing the accelerator further down this time. The engine turned over, sputtered, and started wheezing. He gave it a little more gas, and the engine revolutions picked up, purring nicely.
‘Oi!’ One of the Japanese soldiers at the far side of the railway lines had spotted them and shouted a warning in Japanese.
An NCO unslung his rifle and levelled it. Torrance aimed the Thompson through the open window and fired. The NCO pirouetted and sprawled across the tracks.
Grant, Rossi and MacLeod made for the back of the lorry. Kerr pushed Sheridan towards the cab. Torrance threw the door open for them, grasping her by the hand and helping her into the cab before sliding back behind the wheel. She moved into the middle so Kerr could climb up beside her, slamming the door behind him.
A bullet starred the window. Sheridan cried out in fright.
‘Better get your head down, doc!’ said Torrance.
Rossi banged a palm against the window at the back of the cab, signalling that they were all aboard. Torrance stepped on the clutch, then eased down the accelerator. The Isuzu began to move along the rails with a harsh squeal of metal against metal. Torrance put his foot down and the engine responded. In their wake, Japanese soldiers knelt between the tracks, levelling their rifles. Torrance heard the yammering of a Bren behind him – Grant firing the machine gun over the tailgate – and two of the Japanese went down. The rest scattered in search of cover.
The track ahead looked pretty straight. Torrance realised all he had to do was keep the wheel from turning and slow down when they approached the curves. On the straights, he could really let rip. Gaining confidence, he floored the accelerator, and within half a minute the Japanese on the tracks were so far away, they were scarcely discernible.
‘Is it okay for me to sit up yet?’ asked Sheridan.
‘Don’t let me stop you. Everyone all right back there?’ Torrance called over his shoulder through the window at the back of the cab. MacLeod’s face appeared and he gave Torrance the thumbs-up.
Grinning with relief, Torrance took off the Japanese field cap, throwing it out of the window on his side, and replaced his balmoral. ‘Nice bit of work, even if I do say so myself. Now all we have to do is follow the railway line south until we get back to our lines.’
‘And hope our boys dinna see the Jap flags on the doors and riddle us with bullets,’ said Kerr.
Torrance grinned. ‘I always wanted to be a train driver.’
‘This is a lorry, no’ a train,’ said Kerr.
‘Close enough.’ Torrance began to hum ‘Chattanooga Choo-Choo’, then burst out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Sheridan.
Torrance began to croon: ‘Pardon me, boy… is that a Japanese Isuzu…?’
She laughed. Torrance liked that.
‘Aye, well, before we all start slappin’ one another on the back, let’s remember we’re no’ out of the woods yet,’ said Kerr. ‘No’ by a long chalk.’
Torrance glanced at him, and the corporal pointed through the window to his left. Craning his head, Torrance saw they were running parallel to a road, and a squadron of Japanese tanks motored along it, the commanders sitting with their legs dangling through the hatches on their turrets. A few of them cast casual glances at the Isuzu lorry running along the railway track parallel with them.
‘You might want to get your head down again,’ Kerr suggested to Sheridan, trying to look casual as he raised a hand to his temple, masking his face. Torrance glanced in the back to see what the others were doing, and was relieved to see they too had noticed the tanks and were lying flat below the level of the sides. He put his foot down, and the lorry soon outpaced the tanks.
In another minute, railway and road parted ways. By then, Torrance had become aware of another problem. He tapped the fuel gauge. ‘We might want to keep our eyes open for a petrol station.’
‘How many petrol stations d’you think there are likely to be on the main line from Kuala Lumpur to Seremban?’ asked Kerr.
‘Then we’ll get off the main line from Kuala Lumpur to Seremban,’ said Torrance. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for a level crossing.’
The Isuzu rattled over some points as it passed a signalman’s box where a shadowy figure moved around inside the control room. ‘Was yon a Jap soldier?’ asked Kerr.
‘So what if it was? As long as he ain’t shooting at us…’
‘No, but I think he might have switched the points over.’
‘You think he might have switched us on to a siding?’ Torrance peered into the darkness ahead: gleaming faintly in the light of the moon, the rails curved to the right now. ‘Looks to me as though we’re still on the main line. He must have thought we were his mates.’
‘Unless he got a telephone call from the Japs in Kuala Lumpur.’
‘Oh, will you stop being such an old woman? We’ll be in Seremban in another hour—’
Up ahead, the rails no longer gleamed. The most likely explanation for this was that there were no rails ahead at all. He realised they were approaching a bridge or, more precisely, a place where there had been a bridge a few hours ago.
‘Bloody sappers!’ Torrance slammed his foot on the brake. The Isuzu slowed with a squeal that set his teeth on edge. It finally came to a halt a few yards shy of the charred and twisted ends of the rails.
Torrance puffed his cheeks out and reversed the Isuzu to where the embankment was not so steep and they had a chance of getting it down to a road, if only they could get it off the rails. If he had hoped that would be as easy as pressing a button, however, he was disappointed. There was a wheel brace, and odd holes in the bodywork above the wheels that were just the right size to insert one of the socket heads of the wheel brace so you could winch up the railway wheels, or winch down the road ones, but no amount of fiddling would get any of the sockets to fit snugly over the bolts of the mechanism. They were still fiddling with it ten minutes later when they saw two more pairs of headlights coming down the tracks towards them.
‘Mebbe someone in one o’ them lorries can tell us how to convert it into a road vehicle,’ said Rossi.
Swearing, Torrance threw away the wheel brace, snatched up his pack and Thompson, and made for a footpath leading down to the riverbank below.
They followed the river in the moonlight for a couple of miles, until they came to where a rope-bridge spanned the grey torrent, anchored to trees growing on the banks. It was made out of tree creeper and bits of rusty wire, the footboards well spaced, if they could be called boards: they looked more like mismatched pieces of driftwood. No attempt had been made to carve them into planks, and there was a gap of at least two feet between them. The bridge sagged so low in the middle, it was only a couple of feet above the surface of the sluggish river.
‘Here’s a bridge our sappers missed,’ said Torrance.
‘Missed, or couldna be bothered with?’ asked Rossi.
‘Or left as a death trap for the Japs,’ said Kerr. ‘I’m no’ setting foot on it.’
‘Fine.’ Torrance gestured upstream, to where the beams of flashlights could be seen a few hundred yards behind them. ‘Wait here for the Japs. I’ll take my chances on the bridge.’
They picked their way across. ‘Give us the parang, Primsie,’ Torrance said when the last of them was on the south side of the river. Kerr drew the blade from its sheath and handed it to Torrance, who began to hack at the ropes of the bridge. Seeing what was happening, the Japanese wisely held back from trying to cross, instead taking potshots at them from the far bank. Grant gave them a couple of bursts with the Bren, keeping their heads down long enough for Torrance to hack through the last rope of the bridge. It collapsed into the water, and the current swept the near end of it downstream. Torrance and Grant turned and hurried on down the jungle trail after the others.
‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ Sheridan told Kerr.
The lance corporal had been reaching for an unfamiliar but no less juicy-looking piece of fruit hanging from a tree.
‘The birds are eating it.’ Kerr pointed to where a toucan feasted on the fruit hanging from branches near the top of a tree.
‘Are you a bird?’ asked Sheridan. ‘Just because a bird can eat something without getting poisoned, doesn’t mean you can. Watch what the monkeys eat. What’s good enough for a monkey is good enough for you.’
‘I dinna see any monkeys,’ grumbled Kerr.
‘That’s because monkeys have sense enough to stay away from the strychnine tree,’ said Sheridan.
The six of them had been marching in a more or less southerly direction – where the rivers and swamps did not require them to take wide detours – for the best part of a week now. When they ran out of bully beef, they plucked breadfruit and cooked it in the embers of their campfire, or dug up sweet potatoes, taro and tapioca roots with their entrenching tools. When they could find none of those, they begged for a little rice at the villages they occasionally passed, or made do with young bamboo shoots and the stalks of ferns. And when they could find none of those, they went hungry.
Torrance kicked at a fallen tree trunk, breaking off a piece of bark to reveal white grubs squirming in the rotten wood below. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Beetle grubs. Split ’em in half and cook ’em over a fire. The Malays reckon those are a delicacy.’
‘You’ve never eaten beetle grubs!’ protested Kerr.
‘No, but I ain’t the one so hungry, he’s reaching for poisonous fruit.’
As they continued along the trail, Torrance glanced surreptitiously at Sheridan. She was in pretty good shape for a civilian, and a judy at that, but the fact was she was not used to route marches the way Torrance and his comrades were. Even so, she had done well over the past few days, never lagging behind, never uttering one word of complaint, stubbornly refusing to admit to any weariness. When he saw she was struggling, he pretended he was the one who needed a rest, never even glancing in her direction, knowing she would not thank him if she thought he was making allowances for her.
They emerged from the jungle to find themselves standing at the edge of a broad plain of padi fields. Sheridan pointed towards a kampong of stilt houses standing beneath a cluster of palm trees on the bank of a muddy river meandering across the plain a couple of miles away. ‘Maybe the folks who live there will be kind enough to give us a little rice.’
They set out walking along a bund, the strip of raised ground between two padi fields. They were halfway to the village when Torrance heard the drone of aero-engines and looked up to see a twin-engined monoplane circling above them.
‘Hey, that’s one of ours! That’s a Lockheed Hudson!’ Kerr started to jump up and down, waving his arms above his head. ‘Over here! Over here!’
‘Why are you shouting?’ asked Torrance.
‘I’m trying to get the pilot’s attention!’
‘What, you think he’s gonna hear your voice above the roar of his engines at an altitude of a thousand feet, do you?’
‘Even if the pilot could hear you, I don’t see what you expect him to do,’ said Rossi. ‘It’s no’ as if he could land to pick us up.’
‘He can let people know we’re here.’
‘And that helps us how, exactly?’
‘It’s turning,’ said Kerr. ‘He’s coming back this way! See? He must have heard me!’
‘Trust me, Primsie,’ said Torrance, ‘he did not hear you.’
Shading his eyes against the sun, MacLeod watched the aeroplane diving towards them. ‘That’s never a Hudson.’
‘Yes, it is,’ insisted Kerr.
‘It canna be. For one thing, it’s too small, and for another, Hudsons have those twin tailplanes.’
The aircraft swooped low enough for the wind from its engines to ruffle the water of the padi fields, before banking steeply up again. As it did so, a machine gun chattered, stitching a line of spurts of water across the padi field. Torrance grabbed Sheridan and dragged her down with him as he threw himself off the bund. Rossi and MacLeod likewise dived for cover into the padi water, while Kerr stood gaping and Grant blazed up at it with the Bren.
‘What are they shooting at us for?’ asked Kerr. ‘Do they no’ know we’re on their side?’
Covered from head to toe in mud, Torrance, Sheridan, Rossi and MacLeod rose from the padi field.
‘Bloody hell, Primsie!’ said Torrance. ‘Your aircraft identification skills are on a par with your knowledge of edible fruit. Here’s a hint for you – red circles under the wings means it’s a Jap, okay?’
The aeroplane banked again, heading north without making a second pass. ‘I think you scared him off,’ Kerr told Grant.
‘My arse! That’s a spotter plane.’
‘Then why did he fly away after you fired at him?’
‘Mebbe he spotted what he was looking for?’
The six of them exchanged glances. ‘Shall we pick up the pace a bit?’ suggested Torrance.
No one disagreed.