For six days Verspijk had been steaming doggedly on, still a long way from home. Its faithful escort Maryborough, on a parallel course – weaving to and fro, sometimes nearer, sometimes further away – maintained vigilance against the possibility of submarines. The aircraft that had tracked their progress daily had disappeared now. But so had the coal, and there was a serious concern about whether there would be enough fuel to last until they reached Australia. Since the cyclone, conditions had become absolutely calm and still: the surface of the sea was flat and reflective, and the atmosphere humid and hazy. The smoke issuing from the steamer, now labouring along at an excruciating five knots, continued to mark their position indelibly in the sky. Even at night, a column of sparks and burning soot flew out of the funnel and could easily be seen from a distance.
The mood on board had shifted as the men, including Len, struggled with the inertia and apprehension that typically filled the void when constant action suddenly ceased. The tension was beginning to consume Len. Surely something was brewing?
He was right. The day seemed quiet enough when suddenly he heard the cry ‘Fire!’ followed by the sound of the Verspijk’s klaxons.
The one thing that sailors fear most, in peacetime and in war, is fire at sea. Len froze. He dropped his glasses and grasped the rail as if intending to tear it from its mounts.
Fuck! Was there no end?
‘Lenny! C’mon, man!’ he heard Jock shout. ‘Get your finger out. The fucking boat’s on fire. Jesus Christ. How the fuck did that happen?’
Len opened his eyes to see Jock disappearing down the ladder in front of him. He slid down the rails so fast his feet never touched the steps, and he almost landed on top of the Scot. There was shouting, and the sound of men running. They hesitated at first, not sure where the fire was, or which way to go, until a singed figure emerged in front of them from the galley. They elbowed him out of the way and leapt inside.
The place was filled with suffocatingly thick smoke, billowing up from the stovetop, which was on fire. The air was acrid with the smell of burning fat, and flames were disappearing up the flue overhead. An Australian steward, who had volunteered to cook on the voyage, was beating at the flames with his apron, with little effect. Jock grabbed an asbestos blanket from a wall container beside the door and threw it over the stovetop. The gas taps were still on, so Len crouched under the smoke to avoid the heat and turned them off one by one. The stovetop was still blazing, and the blanket did not cover it all, so Jock grabbed a drum labelled ‘flour’, and threw the contents over the flames; this immediately dampened them. Someone from outside the galley hurled a bucket of water over the rest, splashing gobs of hot fat over the men inside and the walls. Now, although it still smoked heavily, the stove was no longer on fire. The flue, instead, was burning, and the flames that shot up it threatened to spread the fire to much less accessible places. Len grabbed the fire blanket from the stovetop. Wrapping it into a ball, he stuffed the wad of asbestos up the flue. It was too small, and the heat forced Len to snatch his hands away. The fire began to intensify. He quickly shook out the blanket and folded it in two.
‘Grab this, mate,’ he told Jock. ‘Hold it up under the flue.’
Jock understood immediately, and together they lifted the fire blanket up and over the bottom of the flue. Starved of oxygen, within seconds the flames inside suffocated and died. The men held the blanket there until they judged it safe to remove. Foul black grease ran back down the flue and began dripping onto the stove below, where it bubbled, hissed and eventually settled. Dense black smoke hung thick and heavy in the air. Len, Jock and the steward struggled to breathe, and coughed uncontrollably until Len threw open the hatch on the other side of the galley. The breeze that now blew through the space quickly cleared the smoke, and they were able to take stock.
Johnny appeared, with Captain Oudenaarde. They found the three men covered in soot and glistening with sweat, lumps of black fat clinging to their clothing.
‘Are you three all right?’ asked Johnny. ‘What happened?’
‘No idea, sir,’ answered Jock, turning to look at the cook.
‘I’m sorry mate,’ the steward offered. ‘I was told to collect all the fat off this meat. I must have fallen asleep. It’s so bloody hot in here.’
At first, this made no sense, but then Captain Oudenaarde spoke. ‘Ja, he’s right. We are so short of fuel I had anything wooden – furniture, fittings – stripped from the cabins to fuel the boilers. I told this man to render the fat off these carcasses, to help things burn.’
The Verspijk still had meat in its freezers: several sides of lamb snatched from Tjilatjap prior to the escape. It made vague sense. Jock started laughing. The Dutchmen didn’t really understand this, but Len did, and for his own part he shook his head in disbelief. For days they had survived on tinned meat alone. Now they had so much of the real stuff they were burning it to fuel the vessel.
‘It might have been better to have thrown the carcasses straight into the boilers,’ Jock said.
‘You may be right,’ Johnny said. ‘Engineer Honig and I will check the flue linings. We don’t want any more surprises. You boys tidy up and get back on watch. There’s very little night left.’
Johnny reached out to the trays on the stovetop and plucked a morsel of meat from the smoking mess. His ratings did the same, before leaving the galley. As they did so, a desultory cheer arose from the men who had come out on deck at the first alarm to see what was going on. Jock seized the moment and cheered too, waving regally to the group, but when Len opened his mouth to join in, his throat was too dry to speak. Instead, he stuck the meat in his mouth and began to chew. It tasted unbelievably good.
When he woke the next morning, the sun was well up. He took a long time to get out of his hammock, instead gathering his thoughts and letting the ship’s movements rock him gently back and forth. Before long he began to sense that, again, something had shifted. Whatever this new state of affairs was, it was entirely unfamiliar. The air was cool. And fresh.
He swung his legs over the hammock’s side and jumped to the floor. Through the open porthole he could hear men talking – no, shouting. Loudly. The breeze was blowing their words away, but there was something about the volume and the tenor of the voices that alerted him. He roused Jock, who was swinging away in an adjacent hammock, oblivious to all sound and movement.
‘Come on, mate. Get up. There’s something going on.’
Jock groaned: a groan of the exhausted. ‘Fuck off.’
‘No. Get up. C’mon.’
Before Jock had begun to swing his feet over the side of his hammock, Len had left his own. He found virtually the entire complement of passengers lined along the port rail, and elbowed his way between some of them to look out, following their gaze.
He saw nothing, but began to recognise the possibility.
‘What is it? Not land? Is it land?’
‘Yeah, mate. Can’t ya smell it?’ someone said.
Len followed the prompt, and breathed deeply through his nose. No, he thought, I can’t bloody smell it.
‘What am I supposed to be smelling? My nostrils are still full of smoke.’
‘Bloody eucalyptus, mate. Gum trees. Aw-fuckin’-stralia.’
Len tried again. With each deep effort, the odour of fat and smoke diminished, but he still couldn’t smell eucalyptus.
A dishevelled Jock squeezed in beside him. ‘What are they on about, Lenny? I can’t see anything. Can you?’
‘No, I can’t. The Aussies say they can smell eucalyptus, but I can’t smell anything.’
‘What the hell is eucalyptus?’
‘Gum trees, mate. Can’t ya smell it?’ the same Australian sailor interjected.
It was Jock’s turn to breathe deeply through his nose. He muttered to himself between breaths. It was clear he couldn’t smell anything either. He sniffed, hoicked and spat a soot-laden gob over the side.
From across the water, the Maryborough rent the air with three long blasts of her ship’s horn. When the Verspijk answered with three long blasts, the whole ship’s company, the majority of whom were now up on deck, let out a huge shout, and set about congratulating one another.
When Len and Jock turned to make their way back to their cabin, they found Johnny walking towards them. He beamed.
Len spoke first. ‘Is it true?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Johnny told them. ‘We had a signal from Glen Cant on Maryborough, and he confirms it. We are west of somewhere called the Pilbara, and only two days sailing from Fremantle. It’s almost over. We’re nearly there.’
The three grasped each other around the shoulders, and briefly their heads came together. Their brows touched, and Len had to employ all his self-control to stifle the emotion of the moment.
‘Let’s get on with it then,’ Johnny said. ‘Not long to go.’
Johnny climbed the ladder to the bridge, and Jock trotted off towards the heads.
Len turned back to look once more towards the east, and could see nothing, but something on the superstructure did catch his eye. He took a closer look. Around the sill of a porthole was a rust-coloured film. He reached out and ran his finger along the sill, and then looked at the residue. He thought it should have been soot from the funnel or the generator exhaust, but it wasn’t black. It was red. Underneath, the paintwork was in good condition. He looked out to sea again, towards the east, from where the prevailing breeze was coming – a breeze that brought with it the unmistakable rust-red dust of the ancient continent.
Aw-fuckin’-stralia.
Only then did Len raise a smile and allow himself to think that, just maybe, the end was indeed in sight.
★ ★ ★
They arrived in Fremantle at midnight on 10 March, eight days after leaving Tjilatjap. Both vessels sailed through the open submarine boom and navigated their way slowly into the docks. The port was a lot busier than Len remembered it. Nearly two years had passed since Tim, he and the others had been here. Today there were several US Navy ships and submarines evident, as well as vessels from the Royal Navy, the Dutch Navy and the RAN. Scattered among them were a host of other vessels that had come from Java like themselves: a ragtag group of minesweepers, corvettes, coastal traders and small boats of varying shapes and sizes. Maryborough was directed to the naval dock, while Verspijk was obliged to wait before space was found for her on what had served as the passenger terminal before the war. Then, Australian officials boarded the Verspijk and began to process the personnel on board. Servicemen lined up and were placed on a roll, but the civilians were another matter. Some regarded themselves as too important for the process, and attempted to pre-empt it by heading down the gangway laden with their personal possessions. Len was watching from the bridge when a group that included the Consul General from Batavia and his small party were apprehended. One minor official in the group felt particularly aggrieved by his treatment. When it was pointed out that this was wartime: there were issues of infiltration by enemy sympathisers, and proper identification was essential, he became almost apoplectic. Len heard the interaction.
‘Don’t you know who we are?’ the passenger demanded.
‘That’s exactly what we’re trying to ascertain, sir,’ the immigration official replied testily, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.
Then someone recognised Charles Moses, the Director of the ABC East, still covered in soot and grime from his service in the stokehold, and things calmed down. The group’s baggage was searched, yielding a variety of objects, including small arms, before they were allowed to go ashore.
Len, Jock and the rest of the scratch crew who were left on board were suddenly conscious of the silence. Gone was the thump of the engines and the all-pervading sound of the wind and sea; instead, they were enveloped by an overwhelming sense of relief and exhaustion. While shore authorities and Navy staff inspected the vessel, they were allowed to rest, and immediately fell into an unfamiliar, fathomless sleep.
★ ★ ★
The following morning Johnny sought out Jock and Len. ‘I have instructions to report to Commodore Collins,’ he told them.
‘Collins?’ asked Jock. ‘The same bloke from Java?’
‘That’s right. He got away – by air, I think. You two stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ll try and organise something.’
Clapping his cap on his head, off Johnny went, down the gangplank and towards the dockyard gates, satchel in hand. For a while, Len and Jock sat topsides, in the shade, looking to the land and enjoying the absence of humidity. There was plenty of activity on the wharf below.
A waft of cigar smoke indicated the Captain had woken. They joined him and his two officers on the bridge and shared a pot of coffee. But as the day progressed their idleness began to nag.
‘Fuck this,’ Jock said. ‘I could kill for a beer. Come on, Lenny, grab your handbag. There’s got to be a bar around somewhere. This is a port, isn’t it?’ He clapped his cap on and marched down the gangplank, with his steely eyes fixed on the dockyard gates.
Len hesitated for only a moment before following. He knew exactly where there was a bar. The two marched purposefully through the gates, saluting grandly before anybody thought to challenge them.
Len steered Jock towards a side street. ‘Down here, mate.’
Jock was impressed. Len hadn’t told him that he’d been here before. The two went down the street a hundred yards, and there it was. The sign was still above the door. Jock looked up and read it to Len: ‘No blacks allowed’.
‘You’d better watch yourself then, laddie. You’re looking pretty damned black to me.’ His own face had peeled badly, and was almost entirely a vivid pink. ‘C’mon, I’ll buy you the first one.’ And he barrelled on into the pub.
Strangely, it was not busy, and so they quickly found themselves at the bar. Jock threw his cap down on the bar in a gesture designed to attract attention. The barman looked down his bar at the newcomers, turned away and continued talking. Len began to think that maybe his colour was an issue, but then an older woman, perhaps the barman’s wife – or maybe he was the publican – appeared in front of them.
‘Ya better hurry, boys,’ she said. ‘There’s only a few minutes before curfew.’
‘Curfew. Christ, are we under attack already?’ Len was confused.
‘You blokes straight off a boat, are ya? Ever since the brawls. Been a few fights around here lately, between uniforms. Can’t stop the bastards fighting. So we got a curfew now. What can I get ya boys?’
When the schooners arrived, they were full to overflowing. Jock reached out for one without thinking.
‘Ya haven’t paid for that yet, mate.’
As Jock began to pat his pockets, it dawned on both of them.
Jock voiced the thought for both of them. ‘Shit. We haven’t got any money!’
The men looked helplessly at one another. Len’s Straits dollars weren’t worth anything here.
The barmaid smiled and pushed the glasses across the bar towards them.
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s on me. You look as if you haven’t had a beer for a while.’
They couldn’t believe their luck, and both downed half a glass in the first draught.
‘Jesus, that’s good,’ Len said, and then reflected that he’d better start tidying up his language before he got home.
Jock climbed onto a bar stool. ‘Come here, lassie. You don’t know how good that tastes.’
He flung his arms around the unresisting woman and planted a kiss on both of her cheeks. She shrieked in feigned embarrassment. The barman started towards them.
‘Oi. You bastards. Drink up and get out. Before I call the MPs.’
‘Get off the grass, Frank.’ The barmaid gave him a withering look. ‘It’s more than you’ve managed in the last twelve months, ya useless bastard.’
The two sailors almost choked as they suppressed their laughter and downed the rest of their beer. Winking at their benefactor, they left the pub and headed back to the docks. Without money there wasn’t much point in going anywhere else. And if anything, they needed to get back on board Verspijk before Johnny returned, not wanting to show him any disrespect.
Unfortunately getting back into the docks was not as easy as getting out. When they went to enter without passes, they were challenged. They were still arguing with the sentries when a car pulled up at the gates and their CO got out. Len snapped to attention, but, without batting an eyelid, Jock appealed to the sentries once more.
‘See? I told you. Here he is. Lieutenant Commander Bull. He’s our Commanding Officer. He’ll vouch for us!’
Johnny gave the pair of them a stern look, and turned to the sentries. ‘These men are under my command. If you would kindly let them pass I will see they cause no further problems.’
Jock beamed at the sentries while Len remained at attention and looked stolidly front and centre. The sergeant of the guard nodded, ignoring the papers Johnny was offering in support.
‘You blokes come from Java, have ya?’
‘That’s right, sergeant. It’s been an interesting few weeks.’
‘Yeah, well you’d better smarten up your men, sir. They’re not in Java anymore.’
‘Thank you sergeant, we’ll remember that.’
The sergeant waved the three on, and Johnny shepherded his men into the dockyard.
On board the Verspijk once more, Johnny took them into the officers’ wardroom. Captain Oudenaarde sat in his wingback, reading a newspaper and puffing on a Sumatran as usual; blue smoke hung in the air. Len had discovered a real pleasure in the aroma of cigar smoke. He drew it slowly in through his nostrils now. Noticing Len’s behaviour, Oudenaarde graciously offered up his box of number sixes; Len accepted, choosing one.
‘Sit down, the pair of you,’ the Captain said.
Johnny brought four glasses to the table and took a bottle from his satchel.
‘Whisky!’ Jock eyed the bottle fondly. ‘God bless you, sir.’
Johnny poured, and took a glass to Oudenaarde before sitting down. He raised his glass and the other three raised theirs in return.
‘Absent friends,’ called Len. He didn’t know what made him say it.
The whisky disappeared, and Johnny poured again before pointedly screwing the cap back on the bottle. Len let the second glass sit. He felt the warmth of the liquor in his belly; along with the beer and enhanced by the cigar, it caused him to glow almost immediately. Jock was not so restrained; he downed his own second glass quickly, then fixed his eyes back on the bottle with the concentration of a sniper. Unfortunately this didn’t seem to make any impression on Johnny.
‘I’ve been into Perth and spoken to Commodore Collins,’ Johnny told them. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid.’
He paused, and Len wondered what was coming. Johnny seemed disturbed by what he was about to say, and took a sip from his glass.
‘I’m told a submarine was sent to the island to try and rescue our friends. They were unable to make contact, even though they made several attempts.’
Oudenaarde remained silent while Johnny watched his men thinking. Jock was the first to respond.
‘They might have got off some other way, sir?’
‘Yes, they might,’ Johnny replied. ‘Or they are still there, and failed to make contact with the sub.’
‘Or they have been captured,’ added Len,
There was a fourth consideration that none of them wanted to entertain.
They sat silently staring into their cups, even the Captain, who sensed the depth of feeling that prevailed between them at that moment. Len thought of Tim. And Jackie and Johnno. He was suddenly aware that, since they had landed at Merak, the events that had followed had been so all-consuming that Tim had slipped from his consciousness. He felt ashamed, and drained his whisky, banging his glass back down on the table just a little too hard.
‘Absent friends.’
More silence followed, before Johnny spoke again. ‘I have some good news too. We have been drafted to the Ascania. She sails for Melbourne and Auckland, leaving tomorrow on the tide. I’m not sure what the Navy has in mind for you, Jock. You are to report to the Australian Navy in Melbourne, but Len and I should be home in a week or so.’
Len’s head was suddenly filled with a confusion of thoughts: about Tim, the others, himself and his mother.
Johnny reached out for the bottle and unscrewed the cap.
‘Maybe I’ll get to stay in Australia,’ said Jock. ‘It’s supposed to be the place of the future, and it has to be better than Fife.’ It seemed that he, for one, was willing to seize his chance in a newly ordered world.
‘To the future,’ offered Johnny, and poured them all another glass.
‘Carpe diem,’ Jock replied.
‘Absent friends,’ offered Len, beginning to feel a little melancholic this time.
★ ★ ★
It was late the following morning when Len woke, and with a pounding headache. As he struggled to gather his senses and unglue his mouth, he realised that some of the pounding was real – his CO was banging on the cabin wall. Sleeping on a bunk again was a pleasure that had been largely wasted. If he’d had to, he could have slept as soundly on the deck. He rose delicately, to discover that the higher his head was the worse it ached. The taste in his mouth was vile, and he resolved never to smoke cigars again. He stood under a cold shower for an age, arms out braced against the sides, watching the rust-coloured water swirling around his feet before disappearing down the drain. When he emerged into the sunlight of the new day, it was as if daggers had been thrust through both of his eyes to strike the back of his skull. He reeled back into the shade and covered his eyes with a hand.
‘Top of the mornin’, Lenny,’ Jock greeted him. ‘How the hell are ye?’ He gave Len an almighty slap on the back. If nothing else, it shifted the focus of his pain.
‘Jesus. I didn’t think we’d drunk that much.’
‘You’re out of practice, lad, and I dare say lacking in Scottish genes. Ah, whisky. Mother’s milk.’ He put a hand on Len’s shoulder and gently steered him along the deck.
‘C’mon, the skipper wants to see us.’
When they entered the day room they found Johnny seated and browsing some papers.
‘OK, boys, pack your kit. We’re off to join the Ascania. Meet me back here in thirty minutes. It shouldn’t take you too long to get organised.’
It didn’t. Thirty minutes later the three men said their goodbyes to the Verspijk. Captain Oudenaarde and his two remaining officers had gathered at the top of the gangway to see them off. The Dutchmen had taken the trouble to wear as much of their uniform as they could find, and each wore his cap. The sailors had the best bits of their uniform on too. They all shook hands with genuine gratitude, the Dutch for the service the sailors had delivered, and the sailors for their delivery back into service.