At 2315 on 13 February 1942, ML310 left Keppel Harbour. Singapore was in its death throes and ML310 was the last to join the stream of small boats heading south to safety. The HDMLs went before them, having smaller loads, and 311 had already disappeared in the darkness. Leaving the shore did not immediately deliver them from threat, as the water was filled with obstructions and debris, and they made their way slowly at first, crew standing by with gaffs to push away anything damaging. From the Outer Roads, the view back to the city was almost impressive; it was blazing from one side to the other, with explosions adding pyrotechnics to the spectacle, and massive volumes of smoke pouring from the oil tanks on Pulau Brani.
Johnny called for a little more speed. The ML rose slightly in the water as it pushed cautiously through the murk, but it immediately began to swerve away to starboard, in spite of the efforts of the helmsman. They were forced to stop, and discovered that the port steering wire had parted: the same wire that had been damaged during the Straits raid. Happily, repairs took only about ten minutes before they were able to start again, but shortly after they suffered a second misfortune. 310 ran aground. They must have drifted while repairing the steering cable; in the poor visibility their position was uncertain, and they had grounded on Takong Reef. The position now was serious.
Everybody sat quietly while damage assessment was carried out; the army boys cradled their weapons and tried to avoid impeding the sailors. Two RN ratings went over the side to inspect the propeller and steering gear, while Richard Pool took to the dinghy to inspect the hull. While Pool was feeling his way along the vessel’s chine beneath the waterline, someone else’s wake arrived: it lifted the Fairmile briefly, before it settled back again on the reef. Len wasn’t the only one who heard Pool’s anguished cry, and he squirmed when Pool clambered back on board clutching his bruised, bloody, swollen fingers, feeling the pain of his own previous finger injuries.
Apart from the people on board, the Brownings and a quantity of alcoholic spirits acquired from an army unit were weighing the ML down. The sailors had their own priorities, legitimised perhaps by the belief that the liquor could be traded to their advantage. All this ensured that the launch stuck fast. On an ebb tide, she began to heel to one side. Things were starting to look desperate. The ship’s radio was unserviceable, and could not be repaired in the time available before the evacuation. All Johnny and Malcolm Henderson could do was study the tables, and they saw that their only chance was to wait until the tide turned.
So they waited quietly, forty-one men in all, including a Rear Admiral and an Air Vice Marshall, like fish out of water.
At 0630, the boat lifted free on the rising tide, and the sailors sprang into action. No damage to the hull or the engines was evident, so Johnny ordered a course through the Durian Strait, and ML310 headed south at a steady twelve knots: all they could manage under their load.
★ ★ ★
Everybody was sailing south-east. Several thousand men and women were fleeing Singapore at the last possible moment in sixty little ships, heading by the most direct route down the coast of Sumatra towards Java. To reach the presumed safe haven of Batavia, they would have to survive being hunted through uncertain waters and dangerous straits by a ruthless enemy who was already engorged on victory, and who knew no mercy.
Nobody quite knew where they were. Len and everybody else could see they themselves were behind the mass of small vessels. But nobody knew the Japanese were ahead of them, concentrating their own fleet to the south-east, preparing to invade Sumatra and Java and prevent the Allies from responding with a naval force of their own. Thus the vessels of the evacuation fleet were sailing into a trap.
★ ★ ★
Enjoying Johnny’s confidence now as an able seaman, Len provided back-up to Jock on the helm, standing on watch and manning one of the light machine guns on the bridge wing, which is where he stood now. He ran his hands over the LMG, locking and unlocking the ammunition belt, and opening and closing the breech. It was a more responsive weapon than the for’ard gun, which was slow and cumbersome to manoeuvre by comparison. Satisfied that the LMG was still well oiled and operating smoothly, he wiped everything down with his cloth.
Richard Pool was also on ML310’s bridge. Len watched him look at his right hand and try not to display any reaction to the intense pain he was clearly feeling. He blew on the fingers and held his hand high.
The Admiral, also on the bridge, called to him, ‘Show me your hand, Richard.’
Inspecting Pool’s swollen hand, he blew through his lips and said, ‘That looks nasty. We had better get it looked at.’
Of all the men on board, Charlie the cook was the only one with anything that might be called first-aid skills, and they were modest. He improvised a sling of sorts, and wrapped Pool’s hand in a piece of wet cloth, a crude means of cooling the inflamed flesh.
Johnny stood front and centre, feet apart, hanging onto the bridge rail. Len sat at his gun, relishing the breeze, cupping a cigarette and squinting into the distance. When he looked back, he could see the growing daylight beginning to neutralise the distant glow of the burning city. The laden ML sped towards the Durian Straits, threading a course through the islands of the Bulang archipelago, and travelled some thirty miles, before the full light of day obliged Johnny to find an anchorage. It was the morning of 14 February.
The launch slowed and turned inshore at the southern end of Sugi Bawah Island, dropping anchor off Pengu. To their surprise and muted joy, ML311 was already at anchor in the bay. Soon both boats were concealed beneath camouflage of netting and palm fronds. Nobody had any idea where the rest of the launch flotilla might be. In fact, Colin McMillan and HDML1062 were anchored just out of sight in the bay next door. The three launches lay undetected throughout the day. Shortly after anchoring they saw a flight of twenty-seven enemy bombers heading south, and during the day they heard other Japanese aircraft searching for targets, as well as the distant sounds of combat.
Len lay sweltering beneath the netting, watching the other Fairmile through half closed eyes for any movement, but no such signs were forthcoming. He imagined that Tim and Jack Kindred would be doing what he was doing: lying doggo and longing for cool air.
He was woken by the murmur of conversation coming from the hatch near where he lay. It wasn’t in his nature to eavesdrop, but the subject seized his attention immediately. The Air Vice Marshall, Conway Pulford, was talking to Ernest Spooner. His vehemence was striking.
‘Patrick Heenan got what he deserved,’ he was saying. ‘He was a flash Harry, lots of money and plenty of women. He’d been a problem in every unit he ever served in. We had our suspicions. Finding his radio removed all doubt. He must have been warning the Japs when our aircraft were refuelling, at their most vulnerable.’
The Admiral said something about a trial, and again the Air Vice Marshall replied, angrily this time.
‘He was lucky he got a trial at all, the traitorous bastard! He was responsible for the destruction of most of my planes. Not to mention the loss of my pilots.’
The Admiral said something that Len could not quite hear.
‘It was the only option. Neither Percival nor I were inclined to leave him behind alive. The Japs would have made a hero of him.’
‘I’m glad it wasn’t me, Con. Damned difficult situation.’
The conversation settled. Len opened his eyes. So that was it. He had witnessed an execution! He looked up to see Johnny sitting against a bulkhead opposite. When he caught Len’s glance, he put his finger to his lips. Len looked at him blankly, pondering the implications of what he had heard. The absence of air defence had been the vital factor to the whole campaign. Without it, Prince of Wales and Repulse had been sunk and British naval capacity neutralised. Without it, the land campaign and Singapore itself were exposed to remorseless attrition from the air. At this moment, their greatest threat came from the air. The Air Force had been lost in the first two days of the battle, destroyed on the ground, and now both he and Johnny knew why. Someone had betrayed it. It was knowledge that weighed heavily on them for a long time after.
★ ★ ★
At dusk, both MLs shed their netting, weighed anchor and headed off into the night once more, this time navigating the Berhala Straits. By the following morning, Sunday, 15 February, 310 was anchored alone, some distance off the Sumatran coast among the Tuju Islands, also known as the Seven Island group, hidden in solitude in the lee of the largest island, Katjangan.
Unknown to those on 310, ML311 was now south-west of them, approaching the straits between Bangka Island and Sumatra where the mouth of the Moesi River meets the sea. Ernest Christmas, knowing the straits would be especially dangerous, hoped to clear them as quickly as possible. He asked Victor Clark to join him on the bridge.
Victor Clark RN, like Richard Pool a survivor of the Repulse, had commanded HDML1063 with distinction during the evacuation at Batu Pahat and now travelled as a passenger on 311. Ernest Christmas sought an opinion from his senior. ‘Do we risk it? Shall we push on?’
Victor Clark didn’t need elaboration of the question, and his answer was immediate. ‘Yes, we do. It’s all or nothing.’ He paused for a moment, in case a greater clarity arrived. It didn’t. ‘We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t. The only thing we can do is go for broke and hope we come out the other side.’
Christmas replied laconically, ‘I was hoping you had a better idea.’
The die was cast. He ordered his crew to action stations.
Tim and Jack Kindred had been sitting smoking on the aft deck in the early light of dawn. When the call to action stations came, they flicked their fags over the side and went forward.
‘You and I haven’t done this for a while, mate,’ Tim said to Jack. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘Ha, ha! You cheeky bastard. Wait and see.’
★ ★ ★
They didn’t have to wait long, and were only about a mile from the vessel before they saw it, when it presented the unmistakable profile of a Japanese destroyer. Ernest Christmas immediately relinquished command to his superior, who ordered full speed ahead.
Tim and Jack now had their eyes fixed on the enemy. As Jack depressed his gun, both he and Tim saw a flash from the destroyer’s forward guns, and from the flash point burst a delicate puff of smoke. Hardly had the two focussed on this than they were engulfed in a pulverising flash of searing heat and ear-shattering noise. The first salvo produced a direct hit on the little boat.
One shell struck below the bridge, shattering the bridge housing and killing the helmsman instantly. The second struck the forecastle. As the Fairmile sped on, the smoke cleared, revealing the gun, knocked off its mountings, and the headless corpse of Jack Kindred slumped in his gunner’s seat. Of Tim there was no sign.
With the three-pounder gone, 311 had only the Lewis guns for defence, and one of those was out of action. Ernest Christmas dragged the dead Coxswain out of the way and took the helm, while Victor Clark skilfully ordered a zigzag course to try and evade the enemy’s salvoes, but they were fighting a losing battle. The enemy destroyer continued to close, and every shot began to tell. Shrapnel flayed the decks, killing and wounding dozens. All around the little vessel the water boiled under the shower of steel. Then the petrol tanks were hit, and fire began to blaze amidships.
Below decks, the engine-room crew were trapped in a special hell. Another direct hit had struck the engine room itself, the blast destroying the engine casing and putting the port engine out of commission. In the chaos of hissing steam, choking smoke and hot oil spray, two of the engine-room personnel lay dead. The other was seriously wounded, but stuck to his task and managed to keep the remaining engine running. Another salvo hit, and the Fairmile lost speed and began to circle. Ernest Christmas reported the steering out of control.
Victor Clark took stock. His left wrist was broken. Two-thirds of the men on board lay dead or dying. The decks were awash with blood; soldiers and ratings lay groaning among the limbless and the disembowelled. The destroyer stood off. From about a thousand yards, it trained two forward and a single aft turret on the stricken Fairmile, and continued to bring down a constant rain of fire. The short rounds chewed away at what was left of the boat, inflicting more casualties and further damage to the already wounded, jolting the boat with the shock of each direct hit. Clark gave the order to abandon ship, optimistic that they were close enough to shore to enable some to escape. Some of the wounded were lashed to timbers, in the hope this would prevent them from drowning, before being pushed off into the water. Those capable of taking to the water themselves hoped perhaps that they might be picked up, but the Japanese made no effort to rescue any survivors. As Clark swam towards the Sumatran shore, he looked back at the blazing vessel billowing black smoke skyward, small arms rounds exploding in the heat and shooting out of the inferno. Barely ten minutes had passed since the first shot had been fired. Between the Fairmile’s crew and the fifty-five army personnel on board, there had been more than seventy people on ML311. As many as twenty took to the water, but not all of these men survived. Among the dead and dying floated the lifeless body of Ernest Christmas.
On the opposite side of the straits, in full view of the action, were a number of boats from the fleeing flotilla captured by the Japanese, lying in the bay at Muntok. People on Mata Hari watched in horror at the merciless destruction of ML311, counting as many as fourteen six-shot salvoes striking the launch. Then they watched as the Fairmile burned to the waterline, its tattered white ensign engulfed by flames the last thing visible before the boat disappeared beneath the waters of the Bangka Strait.
★ ★ ★
Len and the others on 310 were oblivious to the fate of 311. ML310 lay anchored among the Tuju Islands, intending to stay under nets until nightfall before continuing its passage. In spite of concerns about the Japanese, Johnny gave permission for a party to go ashore and bathe, then sat with Admiral Spooner and the other senior offices discussing the journey ahead.
When the bathing party returned to the vessel, he called the crew together on the deck behind the fo’c’sle.
‘OK, gentlemen, we have a change of plan.’
The men stirred. What did ‘change of plan’ mean?
‘Lieutenant Pool’s hand requires medical attention,’ Johnny told them. ‘The Admiral wants us to make for the Dutch settlement at Muntok and get it looked at.’
He let his crew absorb the news.
‘In daylight?’ came the question from Jock Brough, the Coxswain, but Johnny ignored it.
‘Square the ship for passage. We weigh anchor immediately.’
There was a muted hubbub before Jock took charge and they dispersed.
‘Come on you lot, look lively,’ Jock told them. ‘You heard.’
In quick time the nets were stripped and stowed and the engines started. The crew were disconcerted.
‘Damned fool idea, this,’ opined Jackie. ‘Moving in bloody daylight.’
As if to emphasise the risk, they heard the low drone of a distant aircraft moving slowly across their southern horizon.
Below deck, Johnny Bull and his Executive Officer took stock.
‘This is stupid,’ said Henderson.
Johnny looked at the Australian and shook his head slowly. He had nothing to add. Together they climbed up onto the bridge, and Johnny gave the order to weigh anchor.
★ ★ ★
ML310 tracked south from the Tuju group at about fifteen knots, heading for the little town of Muntok, which lay on the inner shore of Bangka Island. They hadn’t sailed far when they intercepted a small koleh carrying two local fishermen, who warned of the presence of warships in the area, but they carried on, the Admiral unconcerned. The blue skies and low cumulus of early morning had by now transformed into the haze that is so typical of tropical latitudes, fusing the vista of sea and sky into a subtle palette of blue-grey. The bridge was crowded. Alongside Johnny and Jock at the wheel stood Rear Admiral Spooner, Commander Frampton, the Air Vice Marshall and Wing Commander Atkins, their eyes glued to their binoculars. Richard Pool was below, resting his injured hand. Len and Jackie stood at their guns. All searched the horizon keenly for any signs of danger. Soon, they noticed wisps of grey smoke rising lazily from the water. A large oil slick enveloped the Fairmile, and Johnny called for half speed.
The slick emanated from a small oil tanker, burnt out and pockmarked with shell holes, drifting semi-submerged. Around it floated a number of bodies, and not even the oil could conceal the fact that the dead had all been victims of gunfire; they had clearly been shot while in the water. A crew member scooped up a Naval cap from the water with a gaff and brought it to the bridge. Inside was a name, and that of the vessel, HMS Aquarius. As they pushed through some of the debris, there was a shout. One of the RN ratings was pointing to starboard, to something in the water. Johnny immediately ordered the engines stopped. Jock spun the wheel to allow the launch to glide alongside what at first appeared to be some sort of hatch cover. It turned out to be a Carley float saturated in oil with some black and lumpen shapes on it, from which three pairs of eyes stared back at the sailors gathering on the rail. One of the men on the raft weakly raised an arm to the Fairmile’s crew, who now scrambled to haul the stricken three aboard. Once this was accomplished, Johnny immediately ordered full speed.
He spoke quietly to his Coxswain. ‘Prepare the crew for action.’
Len and Jackie opened the ammunition lockers and went through their routine. The heat weighed heavily on them both, and Len felt the sweat run down his face and neck, saturating his shorts. He thought about his helmet and decided to leave it in its pouch, glad for the breeze as the Fairmile sped on for Muntok. The resourceful Ian Stonor took it upon himself to marshal his soldiers into defensive positions around the vessel, where they lay prone with their weapons ready.
Within a matter of minutes the narrow geography of the straits began to reveal itself in the haze. Everyone was silent, the air filled with the roar of the engines. Len and Jackie both searched for any signs of the enemy. While Len automatically began to train his gun slowly across the horizon, more things that spoke ominously of the fate of other boats began to capture their attention. First it was an oil slick, spread wide across their passage, then flotsam and other detritus.
It was Malcolm Henderson who sighted the other vessels first.
‘Starboard thirty, sir. I can see another vessel. No, four ships! In line heading nor-nor-west. Straight towards us!’
They all swung their attention onto Henderson’s discovery, easily 5000 yards ahead and a similar distance to the west.
‘Jesus,’ Len heard himself say.
They could now easily see the masts and funnels of several large vessels. There appeared to be two light cruisers and destroyer escorts, none of which could immediately be identified. Johnny’s instinctive reaction was to avoid contact at all costs. He immediately gave the order to change course.
‘Port one-seventy, full ahead both,’ he ordered, and the helmsman spun the wheel hard to port, to bring the vessel around until it was heading back towards the Tuju Islands at speed.
‘Aren’t you being a bit premature?’ asked Pulford, perfunctorily. ‘They could be ours.’
‘I’m not willing to get that close,’ replied Johnny. ‘If I’m wrong we’re done for: they can easily out-gun us.’
As he spoke, one of the destroyers detached from the group, turning to expose its profile to the Fairmile, and then began to close. Even from a distance the flag of the Rising Sun was unmistakable. The Admiral spoke. ‘So, what do you propose, Commander?’
‘I’m heading back to the islands, sir. If we make it, we may get away with it.’
They raced onwards, closing rapidly on the islands and possible safety. But they had not counted on the seaplane.
‘Aircraft! Starboard ninety degrees.’
The binoculars all swung to starboard, to where five enemy seaplanes could be seen heading in line towards the Sumatran coast. For a moment it seemed they would not be noticed, until one of the planes peeled off and headed straight for the Fairmile. They were still about four miles from the Islands. The approaching aircraft levelled off, in preparation for attack, flying low and straight towards them. Len reached for his cloth. Except for those confined in the engine room, all the men on the Fairmile turned their eyes to the plane. The soldiers braced for the unexpected. The sailors braced for the inevitable, when the helm would be flung over hard to avoid the bombs.
Len and Jackie prepared to shoot, waiting patiently as the plane came straight towards them on its unwavering course. They held their fire until they saw the attacker’s wing armaments light up and bullets begin to stitch a course towards them, at which point they returned the favour in kind. The Bofors pumped several shells, and both men fired steadily at the fast-approaching aircraft until it had closed on the vessel and then suddenly gained height to release its bombs. As it passed overhead, it was the rear gunners’ turn to loose off full belts. Bits flew off the aircraft’s wing, but miraculously it flew on without faltering. The bombs fell wide by twenty yards: close enough to drench those on the aft deck. The soldiers cheered as the plane turned away. The Air Vice Marshall stood next to Len, gripping the rail with both hands, bristling, his eyes riveted on the departing aircraft.
‘Give me a shot at the bastards, will you?’
He turned expectantly to Len, who looked back at Johnny, confused. Johnny nodded, so Len stood back and indicated to the Air Vice Marshall that the weapon was his. Pulford grabbed the gun with both hands, swung himself in behind it and made to take aim at the plane. Then he hesitated a moment, nonplussed, and squinted into the distance. ‘Where is it, damn it? Where is it?’
Pulford’s vision was not the best; he had lost sight of the escaping plane as it hastened to catch up with its companions. Again five dots were diminishing in the haze.
‘Damn it,’ Pulford raged, surrendering the gun back to Len. ‘I’d love to have a decent shot at them. Just one shot!’
‘I know what you mean, sir,’ offered Len, generously. ‘Give them a dose of their own medicine.’
‘You do a better job of it than me, I’m afraid.’
A bleary-eyed Richard Pool now appeared on the bridge, holding his bruised and broken hand, having been roused by the sudden noise and change of direction.
‘Put your helmet on, Lieutenant,’ Pulford told him. ‘We are under attack.’
Pool was about to say something to him, but was cut short by a cry from Henderson, who had seen a puff of smoke emanating from the pursuing destroyer.
‘They’re firing at us, sir!’
He had no sooner said so than the shell whistled over their heads and created a massive explosion of water in front of them. Pool put his helmet on.
It occurred to Len that this was the first time he was facing his enemy on level terms. He had never met the enemy on the water. In the North Sea and off Malaya, the enemy had been almost invisible. He felt least vulnerable to attack from the air; he exercised an inalienable belief in his own skill as a gunner. Now he felt truly exposed, facing enemy gunners who had trained as he had trained, and in ships that were more powerful than his own. He felt the wehi once more though now he had control, so, while his stomach drained, his heart began to beat with renewed vitality; with wana. He remembered his conversations with Haami Parata, and called on his uncles to fill the empty space inside him.
The only option any small ship had in these circumstances was evasion, its size and speed affording that advantage in certain conditions. This was exactly what they had trained for, and exactly what Johnny Bull was counting on as he headed for the scattering of islands with the Fairmile’s twenty-four cylinders hammering away at top revs. Along both sides of the launch, sailors and soldiers alike crouched down involuntarily, as if to reduce the wind resistance and increase their speed.
There was a pall of fresh black smoke rising from the water behind them.
‘I wonder where 311 is?’
The Admiral’s question was rhetorical. They were all heading in the same direction and all facing the same odds.
The word spread among the crew. Where was 311? Where were their comrades?
‘311 must have copped it.’
‘Poor bastards.’
Silence. Len was absorbed entirely in the thought of what the destruction of 311 meant for Tim and Jack.
‘I hope some of them got away.’
‘Got away? Where?’
‘Fuck me. Here they come.’
‘Watch out, they’re firing at us!’
The destroyer, now behind the Fairmile and closing, fired three times at the little boat. The first shot was in line with its target but overshot, the second fell off the starboard bow and the third fell off the port quarter. The Japanese gunners were good, and they were getting their range easily given the distance. At this moment their quarry reached the Seven Islands, and Johnny hurled the boat among landforms in an effort to put one between themselves and the enemy.
‘Malcolm, get rid of the code books,’ he shouted.
The First Officer gathered the sensitive material – signal and code books. Len grabbed a steel ammunition box along with a clip of live shells from the three-pounder. Out of sight of the enemy, he and Malcolm Henderson placed the sensitive material in the box, which was tossed over the side, and sank.
‘There appears to be depth enough for us,’ Johnny said. ‘If we can manoeuvre behind the islands they may not be so keen to follow. I think we’ll make it.’
‘You’d better be right,’ muttered Richard Pool hopefully, gripping the bridge handrail with both hands, his crushed fingers suddenly of no concern.
As the vessel entered the narrow channel between Talang and Tjibia, Johnny called for half speed and then slow ahead, and the Fairmile nosed its way carefully behind the shelter of Tjibia. There seemed little likelihood of the destroyer being able to follow, so they turned into the tide and stopped engines, watching apprehensively for any sign of the enemy.
Ian Stonor spoke. ‘Can we get the men off the boat, Commander? We don’t want to be shot at like sitting ducks.’
‘They will have to swim for it,’ Johnny replied. ‘We haven’t time to ferry them to shore. With any luck the jungle will hide you, while my men and I hold off the Japanese.’
‘How are you going to hold off a destroyer?’ Pool’s voice was tinged with incredulity. Johnny ignored him, gesturing to the group of senior staff.
‘You should go ashore with Ian, sir. It’s your only chance.’
The Admiral turned to Ian Stonor.
‘What do you think, Ian?’
The Lieutenant answered without hesitation. ‘We have to give it a go, sir.’
‘Then do it.’ The Admiral looked at Johnny. ‘If we put the boat in closer we may have a chance of making the safety of the jungle. Quickly, now. If we get away with this, we can regroup later.’
Johnny gave the order, and the Fairmile crept slowly into the shallows, which appeared to stretch about a hundred yards from shore, until suddenly there was an excruciating sound, all too familiar. The boat rose a little, then sank again with a grinding crunch. They had grounded!
Another modest swell moved the boat, again with a gentle grinding noise, but did not lift it. In an ebbing tide and in the shallow waters, with each gentle movement of the waves the heavy Fairmile settled ever more permanently on the reef.
Johnny gave immediate instructions. ‘Drop the pick, now,’ he shouted, and the two for’ard ratings rushed to comply. ‘Ian, start getting your men ashore. Coxswain, lighten the boat! Jettison anything heavy. We might be able to float her off.’
‘We’re done for now,’ said Pool.
At Ian Stonor’s command, his men now began lowering themselves over the side into water that reached up to their armpits. Some of the smaller men needed assistance before their feet touched the bottom, but one by one they all began wading towards the shore. Johnny addressed the Admiral.
‘What about you, sir? We can’t allow them to capture you or the Air Vice Marshal. If you can make it into the jungle we might hide the fact of your existence from the enemy too. It’s your only chance.’
His crew stood motionless on the deck, listening to the interaction. Len kept scanning the skyline behind them, for any sign of the Japanese closing on them.
‘If they find you it will be the end for all of us,’ Johnny added.
‘But Commander,’ retorted the Admiral, ‘they will search the island anyway.’
‘Not if we stay on board, sir. They needn’t know you or any of the others were ever here.’
Spooner dropped his head briefly and sighed. Then he looked up at his fellow officers.
‘Commander Bull is right. Pen, you and George better come with the Air Vice-Marshal and me. We’ll just have to take our chances. Don’t leave anything behind that might give away our presence.’
Len felt a pang of sympathy for Admiral Spooner, and he thought he saw this on Johnny’s face too. Spooner seemed to have reached the end of his resources, but Len didn’t think Johnny had. Johnny was looking down at his crew, who looked back at him expectantly, and he gave short sharp instructions. Ian Stonor took command of the soldiers, who grabbed their weapons and began lowering themselves into the water.
George Atkins hesitated. ‘I’ll stay,’ he said. ‘Together we’ll be a bit of a bag.’
‘I’m staying too.’ It was Richard Pool.
The Admiral and the Air Vice Marshall bustled below, collected their things, and took to the water, helped over the side and into the small dinghy. The sailors watched while they made their way to shore with the help of Ian Stonor and a couple of the Marines, dragged the dinghy into the trees and swept the sand with palm fronds to conceal their tracks.
Charlie emerged from the galley carrying some mugs and a steaming pot of tea. Len had always thought it amusing that whenever the going got tough Charlie would show up with tea. So there they were, waiting, all drinking tea, when there was a shout. ‘Look out! There they are!’
All four Japanese vessels came into view, steaming east, away from the islands. For a brief moment, the men on board the Fairmile thought they might be reprieved, until there was another cry, and another destroyer was sighted steaming directly towards them. It hove to only about a mile distant, not daring to venture into the channel that had saved then trapped the Fairmile. Then they saw the forward turret of the destroyer train on the little boat.
‘Hurry up and get yourselves ashore. All of you. Now!’
Johnny’s command was punctuated by the sound of firing. A shell whistled over the top of them and landed on the reef in front. Johnny looked towards the shore. Len followed his gaze. There was no sign of the Admiral or Ian Stonor’s group. The destroyer fired again, and a second shell landed nearby.
‘But sir,’ Jock remonstrated, ‘surely we’re going to stay on board too?’
‘No,’ said Bull. ‘You will be safer onshore. Mr Henderson and I will stay and face the music.’
Unlike the soldiers, the sailors gave every appearance of reluctance to abandon their boat and their Commander. Johnny gave them confidence, and in no time at all they were overboard and heading for the beach.
All except Len.
Len quickly went below, thinking he would grab some of his personal belongings, but when he opened his locker he didn’t have a clue what to grab. His pillowslip, full of the banknotes they had fished out of Singapore’s harbour, hung in front of him. Without thinking, he grabbed it, then raced back up onto the deck. Jackie Hayward was already halfway to shore, along with the remaining ratings, including Johnno, holding his small cardboard case overhead. Len looked up at the bridge, where the four remaining officers stood stoically, waiting. Johnny looked at him, and for a brief moment Len thought he would ask to stay. For his own sake. The thought that Tim and Jack might be dead compelled him to raise his game. In light of their probable sacrifice, he didn’t wish to be found wanting.
‘Get cracking. We’ll catch up on shore,’ Johnny said, offering Len a grim smile. ‘Here, take this for me.’ He handed Len a canvas bag.
Len took the bag and climbed over the ship’s rail. He lowered himself into the water and began wading towards the shore. Two more salvoes arrived, but landed short. In front of him the rest of the crew had already reached the beach.