Lieutenant Ishikawa stood with his head cocked on one side, listening. Only a few hours earlier the rumble of artillery had filled the air like distant thunder. Now the sun was sinking towards the horizon, all he could hear was the cicadas in the jungle fringing the private airfield at Jendarata, nine miles south-west of Telok Anson. Either the battle had ended, or moved so far to the south he could no longer hear it.
But now there was a new sound, faint but growing louder: the drone of aero-engines. Ishikawa spotted the aeroplane circling around to the north of the airfield: a twin-engined Nakajima Ki-34 transport. Making its final approach, it came in low over the palm trees, the undercarriage touching the greensward, bouncing slightly, then settling down as the pilot throttled back, the tailplane descending until the third wheel touched down. He taxied the Nakajima across to where Ishikawa waited by the 30 cwt Humber truck parked on the apron.
Sergeant Ogata eased himself out of the cab and made his way around the bonnet to stand next to Ishikawa. A victim of an abnormality of the pituitary gland, Ogata was the exception that proved false the rule that all Japanese were small. He stood nearly seven feet tall, with a gnarled brow beneath the peak of his field cap, an abnormally long, square jaw, broad shoulders, and fists like sledge hammers.
A door opened in the Nakajima’s fuselage and a member of the flight crew lowered a ladder to the ground before withdrawing to make way for the transport’s sole passenger, an officer not much older than Ishikawa himself with an attaché case in one hand. Like Ishikawa, he wore a peaked cap, and a Sam-Browne belt over an olive-drab tunic that matched the jodhpurs tucked into riding boots of undressed black leather. The only discordant note in his uniform was the paisley cravat he wore at his throat. He wore a white brassard on one arm, but while the brassards worn by Ishikawa and Ogata were printed with the two kanji for ‘law’ and ‘soldier’ – the emblem of the Kenpeitai – the newcomer’s brassard had a Latin ‘U’ character inscribed in black inside a hexagon.
Ishikawa and Ogata both bowed low before saluting.
The newcomer returned their salutes. ‘Lieutenant Ishikawa?’
‘Yes, Captain-sama.’
The newcomer turned to Ogata with a smile of recognition. ‘Sergeant Ogata.’
‘Mitsumoto-sama,’ said the burly sergeant.
The crew of the Nakajima had already closed the door in the fuselage and were taxi-ing back to the far end of the runway. Captain Mitsumoto indicated the truck. ‘What’s this?’
‘I was ordered to indent for a wireless truck, Captain-sama,’ said Ishikawa. ‘There was not enough space in the transports with Admiral Ozawa’s fleet for vehicles other than tanks, so we’ve had to commandeer vehicles left behind by the retreating British. Fortunately, their retreat has been so precipitous, this has not presented us with any difficulty.’ Ishikawa essayed a smile. ‘The men are calling them “Churchill supplies”.’
‘“Churchill supplies”.’ Mitsumoto returned the lieutnant’s smile, and indicated the aerial sticking up from the canvas awning over the back of the truck. ‘There is a wireless in the back?’
‘Of course, Captain-sama! A British Mark Eighteen set. We’ve put Japanese labels over the English labels, so anyone with basic training in wireless operation should be able to use it.’
‘Excellent! You have done well, Lieutenant-san.’
Ishikawa bowed again. ‘Thank you, Captain-sama.’
Mitsumoto placed the attaché case on the Humber’s bonnet and took out a couple of white brassards matching his own. ‘Put those on in place of your Kenpeitai brassards,’ he ordered, handing one each to Ishikawa and Ogata. ‘You’re now members of Uchida Kikan.’
There was no single, permanent department in the Imperial Japanese Army responsible for military intelligence. Instead, the Secret Section of the Second Bureau of the Imperial General Staff set up special service agencies called tokumu kikan to carry out specific tasks on an ad hoc basis. Commanded by Baron Uchida, and named after him, Uchida Kikan – U-Kikan for short – was one such unit, with responsibility for gathering intelligence about the mineral resources of the various countries Japan was set on invading. Indeed, Japan would not now be embarking on this war if U-Kikan had not provided the raw intelligence behind the projections that Japan would become entirely self-sufficient if it achieved all its war aims.
Mitsumoto took a couple of pennants bearing the same symbol from the attaché case and handed them to Ogata. ‘Fix those to the mudguards.’
While the sergeant was putting the pennants in place, Mitsumoto took a map of central Malaya from the case and unfolded it, spreading it on the bonnet. ‘Show me where the British front line is.’
‘The situation is fluid,’ said Ishikawa. ‘But yesterday we drove the British out of Kampar.’ He indicated the village on the map.
‘Good,’ said Mitsumoto. ‘Take me there. You drive. Get in the back, Ogata.’
Mitsumoto folded away the map and climbed in the cab next to Ishikawa. A moment later a double-thump from the back indicated Ogata had clambered over the tailgate and was sitting securely in the back. Ishikawa started the engine and put the truck in gear.
‘Is it permitted to know our objective, Captain-sama?’ he asked Mitsumoto.
‘You are familiar with the Burroughs and Salter Survey?’
‘Of course. But it was lost. When our agent tried to smuggle it out of Singapore, the British authorities contacted the pilot by wireless and ordered him to turn the aeroplane around. From listening in to the wireless transmissions, as far as we can tell, there was an exchange of shots and the aeroplane crashed in the jungle somewhere on the western slopes of the Titiwangsa Mountains.’
‘I have read Captain Fujita’s final report.’ The emphasis Mitsumoto placed on the word ‘final’ left Ishikawa in no doubt the captain was aware Fujita had committed seppuku immediately after submitting his report to atone for his failure. ‘But what was lost can be found. Another of our agents behind enemy lines is searching for it now.’
‘He’ll have his work cut out for him to find an aeroplane that went down in those jungles, Captain-sama.’
‘Be that as it may…my orders are to get that survey at all costs.’
Ishikawa turned the Humber south on to the Trunk Road. After a few miles, they had to slow down to navigate their way past the charred, still-smouldering hulks of a couple of Chi-Ha tanks. The drainage ditches on either side were choked with the corpses of turbaned sepoys. Here Mitsumoto and Ishikawa could see European prisoners-of-war being marched back north by guards who prodded them with bayonets and beat them with their rifle butts.
‘Oni,’ said Mitsumoto. The word was Japanese for ‘ogre’. With their big, unnaturally-hued and glaring eyes, their large noses and their ruddy complexions, Europeans looked a lot like Japanese ogres.
Catching Ishikawa giving him a sidelong glance, Mitsumoto flushed and grinned ruefully. ‘In Oga we have a tradition on New Year’s Day…men dress up as namahage, with straw capes and oni masks, and go from door to door with big carving knives in one hand and wooden pails in the other. “Are there any unruly children here?” they ask. “A child that does not obey its parents is the child of an oni!” Of course, when I grew up I realised it was just three of our neighbours wearing costumes, but the first year it happened, I was so scared I cried myself to sleep.’
There was something in Mitsumoto’s accent that had been bothering Ishikawa. Now he placed it: just the faintest hint of the Tohoku dialect. People from the northern end of Honshu were often perceived to be lazy, rural bumpkins, so Ishikawa did not blame Mitsumoto for trying to hide it with good Tokyo Japanese.
Mitsumoto screwed a cigarette in an amber holder, before proffering his cigarette case to Ishikawa, who took one. ‘Thank you, Captain-sama.’
‘When I was sixteen, my father took me with him on one of his business trips to Tokyo.’ Mitsumoto paused to light his cigarette with a gold-plated Dunhill. ‘That was the first time I saw a gaijin. You know what he was doing? Arguing…with a police officer! Can you imagine it? Here was a police officer, trying to lay down the law, and this stupid, disrespectful gaijin was arguing with him! When we’re children, our parents tell us there are no such things as oni, but there are.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Time to contact our agent.’ He indicated where a gravel bridlepath forked off the Trunk Road. ‘Pull in here.’
Ishikawa parked the Humber and he and Mitsumoto got out and made their way to the tailgate. ‘See if you can get White Tiger on the radio,’ Mitsumoto ordered Ogata. ‘Frequency thirty-eight-point-four megahertz.’
‘Yes, Captain-sama.’ Ogata squeezed his ungainly bulk into the chair by the table bearing the wireless set, holding one of the earphones to the side of his head before pressing the ‘transmit’ button to talk into the microphone. ‘Azure Dragon calling White Tiger, Azure Dragon calling White Tiger, are you receiving? Come in, White Tiger.’ Releasing the button, he listened for a few moments before sending the same transmission out a second time. He had to send the signal a third time before he got a response. ‘White Tiger, Mitsumoto-sama!’ he said over his shoulder, before pressing the button again. ‘Have you located the Vermilion Bird yet…? Stand by.’ Taking his finger off the button, Ogata turned to Mitsumoto. ‘He says he’s made contact with a Sakai tribesman who knows the location of the crashed aeroplane. He hopes to have the survey in his hands within twenty-four hours.’
‘Good,’ said Mitsumoto. ‘We’ll contact him again this time tomorrow.’
Ogata passed the message back and signed off.
Mitsumoto took out his map again and tapped it with a fingertip. ‘According to our calculations, the aeroplane crashed somewhere around here. That’s only fifty-three kilometres south .’
‘On the other side of the British lines,’ Ishikawa pointed out.
‘By this time tomorrow, White Tiger will have the survey in his hands, and the British will have fallen back past his position again. The survey is as good as ours!’
The man who had designed the Bren gun carrier had not bothered with doors. If you wanted to get into the driver’s seat, you had to climb over the side, drop into the passenger seat, and then slide across behind the wheel, preferably without catching your backside on the gearstick en route.
Torrance set the choke and throttle, checked the handbrake was on, shifted the gearstick to neutral, flicked the ignition switch and pressed the starter button. There was no mistaking the sound of the engine misfiring, even over the drumming of the rain against the rubberised groundsheet Torrance and Rossi had stretched between four trees to provide them with some semblance of shelter while they worked on the engine. Torrance flicked the ignition off. In the back, Rossi unscrewed the oil-filler cap and leaned over the partition behind the front compartment to show the underside of the cap to Torrance by the light of a mechanic’s work lamp. It was coated with a creamy-coloured gunk.
‘Yon’s a sure sign of a leaking manifold, is it no’?’
‘Maybe. Or maybe it’s a cracked block, a cracked cylinder head… or perhaps nothing more sinister than condensation in the oil. But if I was a betting man – which, as it happens, I am – I’d lay you ten to one what we’ve got is a blown head gasket.’
Torrance climbed into the back of the carrier and unscrewed the panel from the engine housing, disconnected the fuses from the ignition and the fuel system, and used a socket wrench to remove the spark plugs. As each one came out, he inspected the bottom. The third was wet to the touch and he showed it to Rossi. ‘That’s where the problem is. A spark plug ought to be as dry as a pharaoh’s jockstrap.’
He returned the wet plug to its housing, took the cap off the radiator and topped it up with water. ‘Give the motor a crank.’
Rossi dropped down into the passenger seat, slid across behind the wheel and cranked the motor. The engine turned over wheezily.
Torrance saw bubbles forming in the radiator water. ‘It’s the head gasket all right. We’ve got water leaking into the coolant passages, mixing with the oil.’
‘Can we fix it?’
‘We’ll have to indent for a new head gasket. She’ll run without damaging the cylinder heads in the meantime, as long as we keep an eye on the radiator level. If we don’t lose more than half a gallon every hundred miles or so, it should be okay.’
Torrance packed away his tools and put out the lamp. Both he and Rossi put on their gas capes and headed out into the rain. The fat drops shattered against the tarmac of the Trunk Road, bouncing back up again to create a fine, knee deep mist.
Rossi leaped over the flooded drainage ditch at the side of the road. Torrance followed, his feet skidding in the mud beneath the carpet of sodden leaves on the other side, and landed heavily on his backside, more startled than hurt.
‘Shit!’ He picked himself up quickly, but not fast enough to stop the wet from soaking the seat of his baggy, knee-length shorts – ‘Bombay bloomers’ in army parlance.
Rossi turned back to see what he was swearing about, and burst out laughing when he saw Torrance brushing wet leaves from his backside. ‘Did you fall over?’
‘I slipped!’
‘Oh, you slipped. Well, that makes all the difference.’
‘Bloody country,’ Torrance muttered under his breath as he followed Rossi across another plantation. ‘What the Japs want with it beats me.’
‘They’re after the rubber…’ Rossi gestured at the trees planted in rigidly aligned rows, five yards between each one and the next. ‘And the tin. It’s all about the sinews of war, the raw materials.’
‘So they want to conquer the world so they’ve got the raw materials to conquer the world? That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Who says fascist dictators have to make sense? Mind you, are we any better?’
Torrance thought about it, but not for long. ‘Yes. Yes, we are.’
‘Are we, though but? We only conquer countries like Malaya for the raw materials—’
‘Actually, we’re here by invitation. The sultans invited us in so we could protect their country.’
‘Aye, well, if we’re here to protect the Malays frae the Japs, I widnae say we’re doing a bang-up job of it so far. Look… Slugger… about the other day…’
‘What about the other day?’
‘When Soupy pushed you back against the side of the Bren gun carrier… you’re right, it was assault. I’m no’ saying I approve of you leaving Sar’nt Murray for the Japs, mind, but still… that didnae give Soupy the right to rough you up like that.’
‘Oh, now you’re prepared to back me up – when none of the others are around to hear!’
‘Are you no’ listening? I’m saying if you want to report him, I’ll be your witness.’
Torrance shook his head. ‘Never grass on a comrade.’
‘You mean, you’re gaunae let him get away with it?’
Torrance bridled. ‘Now, I never said that. I’ll deal with Soupy in my own time. But when I do, I’ll do it my way, and without crawling to bleedin’ Mr Foreskin.’ ‘Mr Foreskin’ was their nickname for their platoon commander, Lieutenant Frederick Erskine.
Torrance heard a noise above the hiss of the rain on the leaves. ‘What’s that?’
‘What’s what?’
‘That sound?’
‘Sounds like my bed calling. It’s saying, “Come in out of the rain, you silly barmpot.”’
‘Shhh!’ Torrance shrugged off his pack and dug around inside it, producing a flashlight. He switched it on and the beam picked out the slashing rain. He moved it around. It passed over a figure, passed on, then moved back to pinpoint an old Chinese man wearing a coolie hat. Dazzled by the torch, he raised one hand to shield his eyes. The other hand held a rake.
‘Just some auld Chinese man,’ said Rossi. Nearly half the population of Malaya were Chinese immigrants or their descendants.
‘“Chinaman”, you mean,’ said Torrance.
‘What?’
‘The word is “Chinaman”.’
‘Don’t be daft!’ Rossi said scornfully. ‘You say “Scotsman”, no’ “Scotlandman”, right? It’s “Englishman”, no’ “Englandman”. So it’s “Chinese man”, not “Chinaman”. He’s no’ made of porcelain!’
Torrance was fairly sure the expression was ‘Chinaman’, but he could not fault Rossi’s logic. He shook his head dismissively: there were more pressing matters to attend to. ‘Hey, you!’ He beckoned the old man to approach.
The old man made a Who, me? gesture.
‘Yeah, you. Come here.’
‘No speakee English.’
‘Yeah,’ said Torrance. He was used to the Chinese not speaking English. They spoke it fluently enough when they had something to sell you, but if you had any kind of complaint, suddenly their knowledge of the English language failed them as if it had never been. ‘What are you doing out in this rain at this time of night?’
‘No savvy.’
‘Aw, leave him alone,’ said Rossi. ‘He disnae understand.’
‘He understands all right,’ said Torrance. ‘What you do out in rain and dark?’ he asked in pidgin English.
The old man showed them his rake.
‘You can see what he’s up to,’ said Rossi. ‘He’s raking the leaves.’
‘In the rain? Who sweeps up leaves when it’s raining?’
‘We’re in Malaya. It’s always raining. When else is he gaunae sweep up leaves?’
‘It doesn’t always rain in the mornings.’ Torrance shone the torch at the leaves. The old man had swept them into three long piles, all joined at one end.
‘I bloody knew it,’ said Torrance. ‘He’s a bleedin’ fifth columnist!’
‘Aye, I can see it now,’ said Rossi. ‘Auld Tojo strides into the Imperial throne room and bows before Hirohito. “Your Majesty, I’ve assembled a battalion of fifth columnists, all specially training in leaf-sweeping, and equipped them with brooms and rakes. They’ll penetrate the enemy lines and tidy up the billets, all ready for us to move in.”’
‘Shut your trap for a minute and look!’ Torrance played the beam of the torch over the glistening mounds of wet leaves. ‘Doesn’t that look like anything to you?’
‘Aye, it looks like a pile of leaves.’
‘Now try to imagine it’s day, and you’re a Jap pilot flying overhead. What’s that pile of leaves going to look like then?’
‘I’m no’ sure a pilot would even be able to see it.’
‘Sure he would. And he’d see a big arrow, pointing directly at our battalion HQ.’
The old man tried to run for it. Torrance caught him in a few seconds. The old man swung the rake at him. Torrance seized it in one hand, jerking it out of the old man’s grip and tossing it aside just as Rossi ran up. Torrance shone the torch’s beam in the old man’s eyes. ‘Is that it? You fifth columnist? You signal to Jap planes?’
‘Leave him alone!’ said Rossi. ‘He’s just an auld feller.’
‘He’s not, he’s a bloody fifth columnist! How else d’you think the Jap bombers can always find us so easily? Because of treacherous bastards like this old sod.’
‘What’s goin’ on here?’
Torrance redirected the torch’s beam and picked out Campbell, swaying slightly on his feet and looking very flushed in the face.
‘Interrogating a suspected fifth columnist, corp,’ said Torrance. ‘Caught him sweeping up leaves into the shape of an arrow pointed at our battalion HQ.’
Campbell moved closer to inspect the old man for himself. Torrance could smell whisky on his breath. ‘Is that true, Fu Manchu? Are you signalling to the Jap planes?’
‘Not signal to Jap planes,’ said the old man. ‘Sweep up leaves.’
‘Don’t fuckin’ lie to me!’ Campbell slapped him backhanded. The old man reeled and tripped, sprawling in the mud. ‘You’re a fuckin’ fifth colyumist, aren’t you?’
‘Steady on, Soupy!’ said Rossi. ‘He’s just an auld man.’
The old man rose on to his hands and knees. Campbell slammed the sole of one boot into his ribs, sending him sprawling again. ‘You fuckin’ dirty Chink bastard! You bastards are all the same!’
Torrance winced. ‘Maybe we should just turn him over to the intelligence-wallah, Soupy. Let him sort him out.’
‘We don’t need the I-wallah,’ said Campbell. ‘We can sort this bastard out for ourselves.’
‘Hate Shrimp Barbarians,’ said the old man. ‘They killed my daughter and her husband at Nanking.’
Campbell unslung his Thompson and pulled back the cocking handle. ‘I’m gaunae fuckin’ bump him! On your feet, you!’
Gibbering with fear, the old man remained where he grovelled, his arms raised against the blinding light of the torch Torrance shone in his face.
‘For God’s sake, corp!’ said Rossi. ‘You canna do that! He’s just some auld feller!’
‘He’s a bloody fifth colyumist, I tell you! Get up, you!’ Campbell kicked at the old man. ‘On your feet!’ When the old man still did not move, the corporal caught him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him to his feet. ‘Start walking.’
Weeping now, the old man hobbled out of the relative shelter into the rain. Campbell levelled the tommy gun.
Rossi grabbed the barrel of the gun and forced it down. ‘For Christ’s sake, no! Yon’s a human being! Even if he is a fifth colyumist, you canna just take the law into your own hands and execute him!’
Campbell yanked the gun from Rossi’s grip, and slammed the butt into his midriff. Doubled up in agony, Rossi fell to his knees.
The tommy gun hammered out, the flames from its muzzle lighting up the scene for a second or two. When it fell silent, Torrance’s night vision was ruined and he could no longer see the old man.
‘That’s for Rab Murray,’ said Campbell.