‘You’ll be lucky if you get off tomorrow, Stubbs. You know that nothing in Sumatra ever runs to time. The bloody Van Heutsz never turned up at Belawan yesterday.’
Charlie Meadows and Johnny Mercer were helping me pack. My two tin trunks were full. Ida Lupino and the Monkey God were down off the wall.
They filled me in on the Van Heutsz. The RAPWI convoy, under an escort of South Wales Borderers, had arrived at Belawan the previous afternoon to await the ship. It never came. The whole party was forced to return to Medan before darkness fell. Later a message was received from Singapore to say that engine trouble had developed; the boat would arrive twenty-four hours late. So today the convoy was setting out hopefully again.
‘The RAF will do better by me tomorrow,’ I said.
‘Face it, Horry, in your subconscious you’re longing to get back to a hero’s welcome,’ said Mercer.
I kept thinking about the city of the dead Katie Chae had described, wondering that even people who lived in frigid deserts should be prodigal enough to provide so grandly for their dead. The revolutionaries with whom Katie was living at the time claimed that the nearest marble quarry was a seven-week journey away. What were such people like, I asked myself. Nobody could tell me that. Only if I went there, travelling the ground myself, would I be able to find some sort of answer to the question.
And when I got home to England, when people asked me what kind of people lived in Medan, in Sumatra, there was no sort of answer I could give that would satisfy me, let alone them. There was no answer. The people who lived in Sumatra were absolutely like everyone else, and totally different.
It was possible that nobody would ask the question. They would not want to know. I visualised England itself as a sort of mortuary in a frigid desert. Sweating-hot Sumatra was where the marble was quarried.
Meanwhile, my bloody neck ached from the impact of that well-aimed bucket.
The Dutch cemetery occupied a site on the outskirts of Medan, near the Deli river. It was entirely surrounded by a low plaster wall with yew hedges on the inner side of the wall. Shelter was afforded by catalpas and plane trees such as you might find, I suppose, in any small Dutch town. I was touched by the way the Dutch clung to their Dutchness on the equator, though I grew impatient when the British did the same kind of thing in India.
A smart Ambonese guard paraded at the entrance to the cemetery, where one of their Jeeps was parked in the shade. Sitting in the Jeep was a white officer, operating a wireless set. The Dutch were maintaining their customary state of alert. They knew what a good opportunity an event like a funeral provided for Indonesian surprise attacks.
Also parked under the trees was a three-tonner and a Jeep with 26 Div flashes. The three-tonner had brought a military escort of South Wales Borderers, who were parading at ease inside the cemetery. The Jeep belonged to Jhamboo Singh, representing British officialdom. There was a section of white Dutch troops in the cemetery, together with civilians with black crêpe bands round their arms, relations of the dead men. All told, not a large turn-out. A good percentage of the Dutch community was at Belawan, enjoying the time-honoured sport of waiting for the Van Heutsz.
I ripped Jhamboo Singh off a salute and said, ‘I don’t suppose this will take too long, will it, sir?’
Jhamboo rammed a cigarette-holder between his white teeth and said, ‘Sgt Stubbs, you have come to this place to render your final respects to three brave men. As such, you are a representative of both the British and the Indian Army. Your turn-out is a disgrace. Why is that?’
He was himself dapper as usual, twinkling from cap-badge to shoes. His KD uniform was freshly starched and ironed without wrinkle or sign of sweat. He was fragrant. By contrast, my jungle green was already wet under the arms and between my shoulder-blades. My old bush-hat, veteran of Assam and Burma campaigns, drooped nonchalantly over my face. My bar of medal ribbons also slanted a little across my left breast-pocket.
‘Sorry, sir. I’m an old campaigner, sir. I done myself up smart as I could.’
‘“I did”, Sergeant, not “I done”. I detest slovenly English in NCOS – that way leads to slovenly discipline. Your belt has not seen blanco at least one whole week. Please get it attended to.’
‘Yes, sir. You know I’m time-expired.’
‘Indeed. So are the dead we are here to honour.’
His expression was lamb-like but grim – a sheep contemplating destiny. I dismissed and moved away. Either he was regretting being so friendly earlier, or he was just staging a little public officer behaviour.
As we were speaking, a vehicle drove into the cemetery. A blue-jowled Dutch army chaplain jumped out and began to supervise, in a business-like way, the unloading of three coffins. Each coffin was covered with a Dutch flag, on the top of which lay three small bouquets of flowers. At the same time, three kite-hawks arrived and perched in the highest tree nearby, to remind us that even if men’s souls belonged to God, their bodies were excellent protein.
It was my feeling that the Dutch civilians knew who I was and wanted nothing to do with me. They did not even look in my direction. We fell into file behind the coffins and the armed escort, our heads bent in the hot sun.
Directly we were drawn up beside the newly dug graves, the chaplain started to speak. His delivery was brisk and unsentimental.
His pace reminded me of the crocodile-hunt: in time of danger, everything is done at the double. All eyes were on him, or downcast on the fresh earth. In that earth, little avid things moved, worms, centipedes, beetles in particular, their carapaces glinting blue or viridian as they scurried down into the hole. It wouldn’t take them long to bore into the boxes. Their work, too, was done at the double.
Although I couldn’t tell what the old boy with the dog-collar under his uniform was saying, I hoped he was making reference to the shite-hawks and the beetles, and having a word to say about how the tropics are much better than cold climates at setting life and death slap up against one another, practically in a copulating position.
It was hard not to think of death in Medan as hot and ardent, rather than cold. The image came back to me of the three men lying in curious attitudes on the go-down floor, but its force had been eroded by the ministrations of Katie Chae. Perhaps the old boy was chuntering on about Sontrop being a practising homosexual. Well, that was another thing you couldn’t practice, six feet under. There was a law against it down there, plus a similar law against fucking.
As the stream of Dutch flowed by us, I let my gaze wander. A British army vehicle was drawing up on the other side of the wall. Someone was late; the coffins, with their bouquets already wilting in the heat, were about to be lowered. The vehicle was a gin-palace.
That was curious. I found myself looking for something before I knew what. I was looking for the word MERDEKA, stencilled in yellow paint just behind the cab. It wasn’t there. It was not our vehicle. This was one of the gin-palaces stolen from Belawan.
This gin-palace would be packed with Indonesians. Because of its British origins, it could slide in beside the unsuspecting Ambonese guard at the gate without being challenged.
I was standing with Jhamboo behind the South Wales Borderers, who were raising their rifles to fire a salute as the coffins were lowered. I seemed to stand there for ever, frozen, while that dark vehicle glided in under the shading trees.
Then I grabbed the arm of the second lieutenant who was in charge of the Borderers’ detail. I blurted out a warning.
‘Jolly good,’ he said. ‘Thanks so much. Everyone take cover behind the wall, schnell, schnell! Take cover!’
‘Haast, haast!’
People were pretty haast, mourners and soldiers alike. Jhamboo grasped immediately what was happening. As a Dutch major turned, angry at the interruption, Jhamboo explained and pointed out the gin-palace.
The major’s grey eyes lit. His head thrust forward. I never saw pugnacity overtake a man so fast. His little white moustache crackled with static. He was a well-built man with greying crew-cut hair and one of those distorted mouths you find on people condemned to spending a lifetime talking Dutch. He made it to the cemetery wall at a run, cleared it with a flying leap, and gave the word to the Ambonese.
The Indonesians, seeing their ruse was discovered, flung wide the rear doors of the gin-palace and opened fire.
They had a Japanese machine-gun mounted on the floor of the vehicle. The sod behind it bared his teeth as he let go his first burst. From the cab, another extremist fired a light machine-gun. The whole sunlit afternoon started to go up in smoke.
‘Take cover, don’t panic!’ yelled Jhamboo. He ran up to the wall, drawing his revolver.
The coffin-bearers let go of the ropes. Down went the coffins plunging head-first into the ground. Everyone dived for cover. One matron jumped in after the coffins.
The good old Borderers commenced rapid fire.
Molotov cocktails started to explode among the graves. Amateur things in old Red Fox cans, without great force. The Indonesians had been caught on the hop, their quick strike had misfired. Even the machine-gun, mounted as it was on the floor of the gin-palace, was incapable of firing over the top of the wall into the cemetery. It could only create havoc outside the gates.
Yet the place quickly looked like a battlefield, with the explosions from the Molotov cocktails. The Ambonese, those guitar-playing brigands, were in the thick of the fight. Jhamboo and I were behind a tree, firing intermittently, with poor vision forward. Our little universe consisted almost entirely of lunatic noise, with bullets flying everywhere. It was easy to imagine that the Ambonese had been killed, every last man jack of them, in that first spray of machine-gun fire.
The three-ton lorry on the other side of the wall was hit in its petrol tank. Its cab was immediately enveloped in flame. The fire jumped upwards, catching the canvas, which burned fiercely. Next minute, the flames were in the catalpas above our heads, and smoke blew across the scene.
The Borderers kept up their fire. The sod in the cab of the gin-palace was knocked out. Cab windows burst outwards, and screaming came from inside. The gin-palace gave a convulsive jerk and began moving off in a series of lurches. Its rear doors swung to and fro. The machine-gun was still firing, the gunner lying flat on the floor.
Heat from the blazing lorry and tree drove Jhamboo and me to find fresh cover. The gin-palace moved through the smoke up the cobbled street. Ambonese scrambled from beneath it – they had dived for shelter between its wheels when the firing began. The major with the crew-cut had climbed on top of the vehicle and was trying to ram a Mills bomb through its ventilator; he sprawled on the roof with his legs dangling as the vehicle wove its course away from the scene of battle.
Inside the vehicle, behind the machine-gunner, two members of the TRI were running from side to side in complete panic.
The Borderers abruptly held their fire. They would not risk hitting the major. Comparative quiet fell. We watched as the vehicle jerked away up the road, both its rear tyres flat.
One of the Ambonese who had taken shelter under the gin-palace was still hanging on and being dragged along on his back over the cobbles. He had his left arm hooked over the generator tow-bar at the rear of the vehicle. In his right hand was a grenade.
He lobbed it in. It exploded.
The force of the blast came our way. Leaves from trees swirled past us. The shock released me from a kind of spell; I tore myself from cover and ran out through the gate into the street.
All danger was over. I heard myself laughing insanely. The Ambonese who had flung the grenade was lying on the cobbles, protecting his head with one arm as if dead. The interior of the gharry was in flames, filled with smoke and ghastly bloody things writhing about.
The Dutch major had been flung clear by the explosion and actually landed on his feet. He stood in the middle of the street, shouting and shaking his fist at the gin-palace which retreated in a series of frantic leaps and bounds up the road, veering first to one side and then the other like an epileptic wallaby.
Orders were shouted in Dutch and English. Metal-shod army boots clattered on cobbles. Jhamboo was reassuring the civilians; the military assembled in the street. The Borderers spread out to guard the area while chaos was regularised.
Despite the havoc, only one man had been killed – the radio operator in the Dutch Jeep. One Ambonese had been shot in the upper arm. He was a meaty fellow. His mates brought him to sit in the grass against the wall. While his sergeant examined the wound, he smiled, showing white teeth. Several other people suffered minor scratches and grazes, nothing serious. The Dutch major declined to be examined.
The three-tonner was a write-off; we got the Jeeps to safety and let the trees burn.
With commanding calm, the Dutch padre returned to the graveside and completed the service. He finished by saying a few words in English.
‘Our duties here today are to those who passed over, but we pray that the Lord will also bring comfort to the hearts of those who still frequent the scene of events. We all hope to gain life everlasting. Until such time, life is more important than death.’
Ernst would not have been displeased by the manner of his burial. I felt a prickling behind the eyes as we filed out of the cemetery, under the smouldering trees, where the stink of cordite lingered like an ugly perfume. The incident convinced me that I no longer had stomach for the incidents of war: it really was time to go home.
The radio operator had sent a warning message through before he died. As the last amens were said, fresh vehicles and troops arrived. A lieutenant directed them in pursuit of the enemy gin-palace. The mourners retired to the funeral parlour, which stood almost opposite the burial ground. First aid was given to the lightly wounded and big tots of genever to everyone. The Ambonese, of course, were left outside on guard. Jhamboo was the only non-white present in the parlour.
The general consensus of opinion was that my timely warning had saved everyone from following Sontrop and Co. into the grave. Drinks and big fat cigars were thrust upon me; I was engulfed in broken English and gold-toothed smiles. An aged aunt of Jan de Zwaan’s, who had spent the war interned in a Jap prison camp, made everyone drink a toast to me. Shame rose red in my cheeks. If only they knew how the heart to fight, so strong in Assam, had left me! If they’d seen me crying in the go-down … I thanked them. When I announced that I was starting on the road back to England the next day, they cried and protested, and more drink went the rounds.
Jhamboo insisted on shaking my hand, too.
‘Acute observation on your part, Sergeant Stubbs. You add one more small detail to the heroism of the British and Indian armies. The Empire depends on such valour. Tomorrow, I shall break this wretched “O” Section mutiny by facing the men myself. That I’m determined. You will be in the air then, but you must think of me, facing my very last challenge as a commissioned officer. I shall shoot to kill if they charge at me, and you will read the incident in The Times.’
‘Actually, I think it was hangovers as much as mutiny, sir.’
‘Nonsense, nonsense – mutiny is mutiny, and I shall stand firm.’
‘I’ll be thinking of you, sir. Good luck, sir.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant Stubbs.’ His moustache vibrated.
We saluted each other. The Dutch major with the crew-cut applauded.
After all this, it was inevitable that we moved en masse to the Dutch major’s bungalow in the RAPWI area. There was a sense of surprise when we emerged from the undertaker’s parlour into the street, to find that the burnt-out lorry was still there and the trees by the cemetery still smouldering. I was bundled into a civilian car, where I immediately started to weep gin-flavoured tears on some woman’s shoulder.
At the major’s place music flowed as well as drink. The major began to laugh a great deal. Several attractive pushers showed up, wearing low-cut dresses. A party got under way. Everyone became light-hearted, even the older people and Jan’s aged auntie. A gramophone was brought in. A big gleaming blonde took charge of it and played ‘Dark Town Strutters Ball’ over and over.
I’ll be round to meet you in a taxi, honey,
Better be ready ’bout a half-past eight …
Everyone was dancing. Jhamboo grabbed a small blonde; I grabbed the big gleaming one. ‘Ya gotta be there when the band starts playing …’, she sang, warmly, moistly, in my ear.
After a little while, I went into another room and wept again. My Indian watch had stopped during the shooting. I wound both watches and wept for their inefficiency, which embodied nameless things. The crew-cut major tiptoed in with a woman, patted my shoulder and said, ‘We all owe our lives to you.’
Bullshit. I seized his hand and said, ‘I wish I had your superb courage. Proud to know you.’
Then we both wept. Or maybe that did not happen at all. I was not so much drunk as intoxicated. There’s such a difference between friendly people and people who are friends.
Some while later, a surge of new guests entered the bungalow. Cries and uproar preceded them. It was sunset. Time had passed. Laughs, groans, cheers, shrieks, wild shouting in a foreign tongue, greeted the newcomers. A woman left me, rushing towards the door and throwing herself into the arms of a blond male replica of herself. The commotion was a mystery to me. Alienation closed in. I did not know how to get away.
The major jumped on an armchair and called for silence. He made an announcement, greeted with mad catcalls and jeers and a sort of generalised frenzy. I realised that the Dutch were stark flaming mad. Two little ugly orderlies rushed in with boxes full of lager bottles, and the party started up again.
‘The wrong party,’ I shouted at one of the orderlies, grabbing up a bottle of lager. ‘I’m at the wrong party.’ I determined to escape. I lurched into the other room and there – that’s silly, I thought – there before me were Maurice Boyer and his light o’ love.
They were surrounded by a crowd of people, predominantly female, all in a high old state of animation. Something remarkable was happening on or to Raddle’s face. The head was nodding in a manner suggestive of laughter; the mouth was hanging open; tears were running from her eyes, slime from her nose. At the same time her whole considerable body was heaving back and forth with such a violent motion that saliva, tears, and slime were scattered about the crowd. Happily, the crowd was engaged in similar activity, although to a less marked degree. Recalling Raddle’s ability to vomit, I marvelled at this new feat of expression before realising that I was watching someone simultaneously laughing and crying at the top of her bent.
Boyer was standing with his back to Raddle, talking emotionally to two men, gesticulating in a manner foreign to him. When she caught sight of me, she burst past the Dutch women and threw herself into my arms, in a scatter of various moistures.
‘Oh, Stewbs, Stewbs, I never think I see your drunken face more!’
She gave me a big perspiring kiss like a smack in the face with a hot slug.
I clutched a lot of her. ‘Oh, you are a darling. I thought you’d gone for good.’
‘Plaything of fate …’ She was incoherent. I mopped her face. A nice woman, for all her faults.
We started dancing round. Boyer arrived. He had stopped laughing.
I had started laughing. ‘What the fuck are you doing here, sir?’
‘It’s the blewdy Van Heutsz, Stewbs,’ began Raddle, when Boyer produced a large handkerchief and also mopped her face. He worked with broad punitive strokes.
‘What are you doing here, Stubbs? This is an officers’ party.’
‘I was invited along.’
‘Well, let’s not hear any more about your personal troubles, right? Everyone here has got blithering personal troubles. You don’t see any other non-commissioned officers, do you?’
‘Don’t be like that, Maurice,’ said Raddle, starting to go into her laughing/crying routine again. ‘It’s not his fault the blewdy Van Heutsz ran ashore on the sandbag.’
‘Have a drink, sir,’ I said, proffering a bottle.
‘Not Black Tartan Wombat, is it?’ A look of paranoia crossed his face.
‘It’s lager, sir. Heineken.’
‘Stomach hasn’t recovered from that other filthy muck yet.’
He took my bottle and started to swig. Between swigs and interruptions, he adopted a mellower tone, now that I had put Raddle down, and explained what had happened.
‘As the old girl’s just intimated, the blithering boat ran against a sandbank or a sunken wreck – nobody knows which exactly – in Belawan harbour, about two miles offshore. You know how shallow it is there, or maybe you don’t.’
‘I do.’ He had finished off my lager.
‘Destiny plays a charade with us, Stewbs. Fate amewses himself with abrupt twists of the tale.’
‘There it’s stuck until they can get a tug from Singapore to tow it off. Everyone’s had to return to Medan, second day on the trot. So Raddle and I have been granted a few extra days’ bliss together.’
‘It was meant to be, Maurice. My husband will be so fewrious, but such coincidences are in our stars; we are their pewpets.’
They fell on each other, as different couples were doing all around.
Belawan harbour was extremely shallow and the channel had not been dredged since before the war. Boats with any draught worth speaking of had to stand off two miles or more out to sea. Their goods and passengers were ferried ashore in LCTS. Geography had assisted Raddle’s destiny.
I needed a pee. On the way out, I grabbed more alcohol. Boyer and his light o’ love scarcely noticed me go. They were moving, I observed, into the first phases of a mating process which was going to take all night. It reminded me that I had similar commitments ahead, in particular an obligation to make things up with Margey and say good-bye honourably. I also had to deliver some cigarettes.
The crew-cut major, red in the face to the roots of his hair, swept me up with a crowd of jostling girls. They had brought their luggage back from Belawan and it stood about their feet, making progress across the room difficult. More drinks went down, among continuous exclamations of joy and chagrin at the reunion.
Finally, I blundered towards the door, only to be caught by Boyer.
‘Didn’t mean to be curt with you, Stubbs. Just keep your place. I can’t bear to see anyone with their paws on my charming lady. Look here, I don’t want to let you down about this Chinese bit of yours. You didn’t show up at the Company office, or I’d have spoken to you then. It’s difficult to talk with all this luggage under foot.’
‘Sir.’
‘If you’re crazy about her, well, we all have our impulses. I’ve told you my opinion of Chinese girls, bless their little slant-eyed holes, but that’s only my opinion. Frankly, the way I look at it is, miscegenation is just an extreme form of heterosexuality. Quite a bit of the attraction of Raddle, for instance – it’s not Raddle, by the way, it’s Raddl – lies in her foreign –’
‘God, I must have a pee, sir, sorry.’ Preferably within the next two point five seconds. Stumbling over suitcases, I gave Boyer a despairing look and made for the night. The darkness was intersected by lights, punctuated by music, and shredded by shouts and laughter. The area was impregnated by inevitable barbecues. I rushed behind the bungalow. Lobbing my tool out, I pissed with some force and splendour into the nearest bush, no doubt striking a profound blow at its livelihood.
For reasons I could not fathom, I felt immensely weary, bitter, and drunk. Sinking down on the nearest wooden verandah step, I rested my face in my hands. The coriolis effect became rather self-evident. I slumped sideways against a railing.
Disaster came back to my mind, and the thought of Sontrop’s body pitching head first into the earth in its box. I attempted to recall the sympathetic sights of Katie Chae with her legs open, or Margey’s laugh; all that returned was the face of the wounded Ambonese soldier, smiling, smiling, as his sergeant prodded his injuries. Brave bastards, those Ambonese. You might well ask, why did they side with the Netherlanders against the Indonesians? But the army was their business; they fought for whoever paid them. In those days, Amboina was a long way from Sumatra.
As I write these paragraphs, the news headlines feature a sensational military operation in Holland, outside Bolingen, not far from where Addy now lives. Sinister people the media refer to as ‘South Moluccan terrorists’ seized a train full of hostages, demanding that the Dutch government put pressure on Indonesia to let them return to their native land. Negotiations came to nothing. After twenty days of deadlock, the Dutch sent in six Starfighters to blanket the area with smoke bombs. Then the marines went in. Two of the hostages and six of the so-called terrorists were shot. Now the area is being cleaned up as if nothing had happened. The bullet-ridden train was towed away into a siding.
And who were these ‘South Moluccan terrorists’? The title shows how history and the understanding of it can be destroyed in a phrase. The ‘South Moluccans’ are our old pals the Ambonese. The chaps on the train were probably sons of the boyos who used to sit on the pavements of Bootha Street, cleaning their guns and singing ‘Terang Boelan’ ad nauseam.
In the 45–6 dust up, the Ambonese chose the wrong side. How were they to understand at that time that global changes were under way? Medan was almost as foreign to them as to me – Amboina is as far from Medan as London is from Cairo. They were soldiering on, at a period when half the world was soldiering far from home. But try telling that to the TRI. When Soekarno finally won control of Indonesia, thousands of Ambonese had no option but to leave with their families. Where were they to go but to the distant land of their masters; in the cool reaches of North Europe, poor sods? Miscegenation in World War II was global.
Now they have no way back. There is no place for them in Indonesia – anymore than there was a place for Sumatra-born Sontrop in Sumatra, except six foot under.
As I slumped with my head and the wooden post feeling practically interchangeable, I became aware of an exceptionally nasty sound hovering behind one or other, or both, of my ears. I prepared myself for death, taking a swig from a bottle I found in my fist. Leopards have been known to pant before pouncing; the cobra must occasionally clear its throat of venom before striking; the rare white rhino of Sumatra – bound to be on the side of the Indonesians – indubitably gives a few short pants before the fatal charge. In any case, fuck it, I was too fucking shagged to move. Good-bye, Margey, good-bye, Katie Chae, you luscious, syrupy creature!
Someone shook my shoulder. I opened an eye. Two faces were glaring into mine. One had a big white moustache, one a little black one. This struck me as amusing. Internal instability warned me against laughing.
‘Stubbs?’
‘Sgt Stubbs!’
‘Hello. Merdeka.’
The faces belonged to the Dutch major and Captain Boyer, but I didn’t see what that had to do with it. The Major tolerated only a little of my idiocy before slapping me on the shoulder and walking away. Boyer settled on the step beside me.
‘Careful … There’s animal or something behind us.’ Pointing vaguely.
‘Stubbs, you’re drunk, you poor stupid uneducated soldier. There’s no animal here. Even pets are forbidden in RAPWI areas.’
Shaking off what in more amusing circumstances could be called Weltschmerz, I heaved myself into a sitting posture and said, ‘Big animal, just behind right ear. Ten paces. Maybe five.’
‘Ah,’ said Boyer, brightly, raising and then waving one finger. ‘I’m with you now. Not a real animal. The old two-backed beast. To be precise – don’t look round – a young Dutch chap with his bags down is enjoying intercourse with a young Dutch lady with her knickers down. They’re on a blanket of some description, not more than two metres from where we sit. Judging by the pace, which is pretty fast and furious, they can’t last out much – ah, yes, there they go now, by golly!’ He clicked his tongue with a mixture of disgust and envy. ‘Funny thing to do, when you consider it in cold blood.’
‘Where’s Raddle?’
‘Sending a cable, if it’s any of your business … To her husband, I’m sorry to say.’
My head was clearing. My mood veered wildly, now tipping towards drama and metaphysical speculation. ‘What a hell-hole this is! No offence to your – I really like her, sir, honestly, and wish you could marry her – Miss Raddle or whatever the fuck her name is, but the bloody Dutch in Medan are absolutely depraved, degenerate. You wouldn’t catch the British behaving like that. Or the Chinese.’
He put an arm patronisingly round my shoulders and became nonchalant. ‘That’s just where you are mistaken, laddy, that’s just where you’re mistaken. Limited thinking. These folk, men and women, they’ve been through absolute hell with the Japs. Some day the story will be told. Now, another crisis with the natives. They stand to lose everything, to have their homes burnt, to be shot up and killed.’
A chap and a girl walked past us, laughing together, dragging a blanket behind them.
‘Take those false alarms with the Van Heutsz, yesterday and today. Today we could see the damned vessel, stuck out on the sandbank. Think of the psychological effect of that sort of thing. Life’s reduced to a wretched series of packings and unpackings. It’s okay for me, because I see a bit more of my light o’ love, but think of the psychological impact on them. They can’t win. Pure torture, pure torture, the whole set-up. Personally, I feel very badly to think that we are pulling out and leaving them on their own, but you can’t argue with the blithering War Office. How can they possibly bear up under such stress, except with escape valves like fornication and inebriation? Speaking of which –’
As he began to rise, I started laughing.
‘What’s so funny in what I said?’ He glared at me.
‘Nothing, nothing. I just think “inebriation” is a funny word.’
‘For Christ sake, man, pull yourself together.’ He looked round anxiously, but my laughter had not stopped the revelry. ‘Stubbs, you may not realise it, but you too are living on your nerves. You’re distracted by love or lust, aren’t you? Emotionally torn, isn’t that it? Poised on a veritable knife-edge, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I don’t know what’s the matter.’
‘Admit it, you are, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose so, yes. Everything’s falling apart.’ I lit a fag, enjoying myself.
‘I’m telling you what the trouble is. You are essentially a romantic at heart, like me – loving a girl in distant lands, across racial frontiers – never mind if she happens to be a bloody Chink – caring for her, longing to have children by her, longing for a place in the sun – well, the shade – yet the two of you torn apart, ripped asunder … That’s not pitching it too strong. You can’t pitch it too strong – ripped asunder by the tides of war. The tides of peace – just as bad. Tristan and Iseult all over again.’
‘I’d better go and see her now, sir, now you’ve reminded me. It’s getting a bit late.’ I stubbed the fag out in the soil and had a good cough.
He stood up and towered over me, pointing a finger as if in accusation.
‘Stubbs, Stubbs, I’m going to do something for you. I’m perfectly sober, understand. For myself I can do nothing. I’m powerless. I’m a Victim of Circumstance. Destiny, as she says. The bitch is married and there’s nothing I can do about that. But I can do something for you. I will do something for you. Jhamboo Singh will back me up – he’s a white black man if ever there was one.’ He thumped the wooden railing to express his determination.
‘We can ground that plane tomorrow. We can stop your Repat. We can authorise you to marry this Chink girl, if that’s what you most want. I believe in it. It’s romantic. In a way it’s pure, or would be if it was anyone else but you. Above all, it’s heroic. Defy your destiny. Defy history. Stay here and marry the Chink girl. I will support you. We can go to HQ and and I’ll send a signal to ALFSEA. We’ll remove your name from the list for the UK boat. For once, love shall triumph and the world will be well lost!’
I rose during his speech. By standing on the verandah step and straightening up gradually, I managed to reverse the situation so that I towered over Boyer. He was carrying the matter further than I wanted it taken.
‘Sir, the trouble is …’ I hated to spoil his rhetoric. ‘You see, there are two girls …’
‘Two Chink girls?’ He staggered back in disgust. ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid, Stubbs, you know very well that even in Sumatra you are allowed only one wife.’
‘No, no, sir, I didn’t mean that. I meant –’
‘I know what you meant. Well, I gave you your chance. I’m going to get myself another drink and see what Raddle’s doing. I’ll waste no more time on you, you and your filthy Black Wombat and your nests of Chink girls. I’m disappointed, Stubbs, frankly disappointed. I need a drinkies, a blithering big deep drinkies …’ He made his way back into the crowded bungalow, where the music was going full blast.
I tried to keep pace with him, blundering over suitcases. ‘Sir, I appreciate what you say. You have me wrong. Your offer – it would be romantic. Ow, shit!’ That was the edge of a trunk. ‘Like something out of a novel. “To be or not to be …”’
‘That’s not a novel, you fool, that happens to be a play.’ Boyer’s manner was rather off-hand, perhaps because he had just caught sight of Raddle in the far corner, kissing a young blonde lieutenant.
‘I know, sir, but the principle’s the same. I mean, what I’m trying to say is – oh, sod it! – that I am having a bit of trouble with two girls – Chink girls, sir – at present. I just have to go into town and sort things out. I’m all confused in my mind – oh, shit!’ This time I fell against him and we knocked two dancing couples flying. ‘I probably need a drink, too, I wouldn’t be surprised. Can we leave your kind offer open while I sort of sort things out a bit?’
He looked grimly at me, with even grimmer side-glances across at Raddle, pulling his moustache and visibly regretting his earlier generosity.
‘You have got till midnight, Stubbs. Report back to me here without fail. I shall be here enjoying myself until midnight, after which Raddle and I will proceed to bed, and certainly won’t wish to be disturbed by the likes of you. Now clear off.’
‘Thanks, sir. Good luck.’
‘Mind your own business, Sergeant.’
I took this as an indication of dismissal and went. As I charged into the dark, I saw Jhamboo standing so close to a mousy little Dutch girl that his cigarette holder was half-way up her left nostril. I waved him a cheery farewell, but he was otherwise engaged.
‘Up the anti-vaginaphobes!’ I called encouragingly.