A Different Sky (45 page)

As September 1943 approached, Shin Syonan as it was called, was finally ready for settlers. Advertisements were posted and applications quickly came in. Convoys of lorries carrying settlers began rolling back and forth between Syonan and Shin Syonan every two days. Even though they had no previous experience in farming, even though there were as yet no proper roads and rain caused mud to run in rivers, even though as city people they must now become villagers and the lawyer must bend to the paddy, none of the settlers complained. Pumpkin, cucumber, tomato and maize were all eventually proudly displayed to Mr Shinozaki. He was happy to explain to anyone who would listen the reason for such success.

‘Even though their life is so hard, they can stand it because they have freedom.'

Howard could not heal the festering jungle sores on his legs. His wrists and ankles were puffy and itched; he thought he must have scurvy or
beriberi, and worried which it might be. The quinine he had brought into the camp was finished and now he too had malaria and suffered the same violent shivering cycles as everyone else. When he was not ill, he was anxious and depressed. He had lost weight and lost count of how long he had been in the camp. Months had passed; the year had changed again, and still the war went on. The radio had broken down and they were waiting for spare parts; he had heard no news for weeks.

With several other men in the camp, he was digging a new latrine pit to replace the present overflowing cesspool, and had taken up a lone position at the far end of the growing hole. As much as he could, he tried nowadays to keep to himself, putting up a silent wall before the others in the camp. Wherever he turned the comrades were about him, he slept with them, ate with them, shat with them, washed with them, sang with them, worked with them, exercised with them; he was never left alone. He remembered the crumbling hut near Lionel's house where he had taken Mei Lan, where he had spent so many hours by himself and the exquisite luxury of that privacy. Now, as he worked, thrusting the spade into the mulch of soil, throwing each shovelful over his shoulder, he knew that under their breath they spoke about him, watching him as always.

‘If you dig alone the pit will be uneven and the shit will touch our backsides at your end,' one of the diggers shouted and everyone laughed.

Howard ignored them, put his foot on the spade and pressed down hard; sometimes he felt he was going crazy. Morning to night they all lived by a regiment of rules, like a class of schoolchildren with Wee Jack their teacher, strutting around, aloof in his authority, gun at the ready. The green wall of the jungle, always about them, was no longer a protective fortification but closed in about Howard like a prison. Each night he fantasised about escape. He saw his return to Lionel's house, the open arms of his mother, Mei Lan's body wrapped around him, the crash of the waves on the beach. Mei Lan. She was now part of a distant dream. In the beginning it had been a constant torment not to know if she had escaped; he had lived with half his mind beside her. Now, so much time had passed, and he had submitted so completely to the rhythm of the camp, as monotonous as the chanted sacraments of the Manifesto, that he seemed to float in limbo without connection to himself. His thoughts, his opinions, his ideas, his values and
ideals, all had been brutally shredded. Now he was at war, like everyone else in the camp, with that one implacable enemy, the capitalist and imperialist world. He could no longer clearly remember his previous ideas and when he did they appeared like dry, shrivelled leaves before the fresh, rabid sprouts of doctrine that overwhelmed him. In fleeting moments he had the feeling he was no more than a figment of his own imagination.

He was helping Brokentooth and the boy in the ARP helmet to stoke a fire one evening. Nearby, the two cooks were washing pots after dinner in the stream that ran through the camp. Someone was singing a propaganda song. Comrades with ulcerated legs were as ever bathing their limbs with Chinese tea. The men were relaxed at this last hour of the day; guns had been laid aside and cigarettes lit.

A fresh piece of wood was thrown on to the fire and as it flared up a shot rang out. Everyone jumped up in panic and reached for their guns. Howard waited, holding his rifle at the ready, heart pounding, eyes upon Wee Jack. For a moment Wee Jack hesitated, thinking the shot a possible misfire in the camp, for the Japanese rarely attacked at night. Beside Howard, the cooks hurriedly packed up their pots in case they must suddenly run. For a moment everyone stood frozen, waiting for a signal from Wee Jack. Then more shots sprayed into the clearing and panic whipped through the camp. Everyone scattered, combatants streaming from the barracks, the bathhouse and the latrine hut and running for cover into the jungle. Bullets whistled about, hitting the trees.

In the clearing the fire roared up, illuminating fleeing figures and several bodies sprawled on the parade ground. Howard looked back once and saw Pin, the sick bay nurse, drop to the ground as a bullet hit her. He ran with the others, Brokentooth beside him, crashing blindly through the dark wall of vegetation, falling, scrambling up, ripping aside vines and foliage. Behind them the rattle of pots and the knock of metal ladles was heard as the cooks hurried along, cauldrons swinging upon bamboo carrying poles. He could not tell how long they ran as panic propelled them forward.

Wee Jack led them deeper into the jungle until they could no longer hear firing. To Howard every direction appeared dark and equally impenetrable, but they seemed to be on paths that everyone knew. A full moon could be seen through wide gaps in the canopy as they
climbed upwards. At last they emerged from the dense forest to find themselves beside a rocky hill face honeycombed with caves. There was the sound of voices and Howard saw a group of men he recognised who had recently visited the camp. They had been sent to guard a cache of weapons and ammunition hidden in one of the caves. The men had pitched a camp overlooking a grove of
nipah
palms and were preparing to settle for the night, cooking their dinner over a fire, a half-roasted monkey skewered on a spit.

‘We are safe here,' Wee Jack told Howard, breathing hard. Sinking down beside the fire he began a long spasm of coughing.

They were brought water and later a fermented drink that set the blood humming in Howard's head. As the alcohol flowed through him, strength returned to his limbs. The smell of roasting monkey made him realise how hungry he was. In a bubbling cauldron of rice gruel he saw the small bulbous heads of frogs. He was now used to eating a wide variety of meat. Snake was the most usual, with a taste between chicken and lobster. There were also the plentiful monitor lizards and their tasty eggs, monkey, wild pig, jungle fowl and mouse deer. Without the spoils of hunting their diet was no more than rice, salt fish and tough edible leaves.

They slept on the dusty floor of a cave. There was a storm in the night and rain curtained the entrance beneath an overhanging crag, running into the cavern and wetting the ground. Lightning broke open the darkness and thunder crashed, vibrating through the rock. From time to time Wee Jack coughed and turned and Howard wondered at the determination that drove these men to a life of such intense deprivation. For all their ideological spouting, each man in the end stood alone upon his own personal battleground, just as Howard did. How had he arrived here, where would it end? His life lay before him obscured by uncertainty and he could see nothing of what it would be or how long he must endure this incarceration. The thunder was distant now, even as lightning flashed again. He could not stop the sobs that rose within him as he turned upon the damp ground, his head pressed into the bundle of rank-smelling clothes that had been given him as a pillow. Deep within him, smooth as a pebble, there still lay the hope of escape like something familiar recognised obliquely through a thick fog. He must believe that within the chaos was a larger plan that would finally reveal its purpose. He was shocked to discover
this stubborn residue of his former self had not yet been beaten out of him. In the damp cave, as he listened to the sound of the lessening rain, he knew suddenly that he must protect this precious remnant of self, and that to survive he must keep it secret, hidden away.

It was necessary after the attack to set up a new camp straight away. It must be far enough from the last camp, yet near enough to one of the safe
kampong
from which they received supplies. Although many villages had suffered Japanese brutalities and shared the guerrillas' sentiments, and were prepared to secretly help them, it was a dangerous business as informers were everywhere.

‘Someone must have informed on us. The Japanese pay the villages well for information. Locals are always snooping around in the jungle, looking for our camps. If we catch them, we kill them,' Wee Jack said savagely.

A location was soon found near a stream, and the
nipah
palms needed for thatching the huts were cut. Howard helped with building the new camp, raising frameworks of raw green bamboo, securing attap roofs and walls. It was back-breaking work, but at last it was done, and camp routine settled about them again.

Howard had gone out with his gun, promising to come back with one of the wild pigs they had heard snorting and crashing about nearby. Sometimes, he was trusted to hunt on his own around the camp clearing and valued the time alone this gave him. Because he was good with his gun and always brought back something – lizard, monkey, birds; once even a long-nosed anteater – he was free to pursue this activity without the usual watchful eyes upon him. If he planned it properly, he soon realised, a hunting expedition might give him the chance to escape. He knew roughly the route the food-carrying parties took to the nearest village. Over the months he had gleaned a knowledge of marked trees, the way along the stream, the hut midway; he thought he could find the path.

The rifle hung over his shoulder, and while hunting he always took a sack containing a long
parang
and a rope. Into this now he added a flask of water and some cooked rice he had secretly rolled up in a large leaf. He had also put in a compass and a torch he had taken from Wee Jack's hut. Food-carrying parties always left well before midday, to reach their destination before dark. It was already afternoon and Howard
worried about a night in the jungle, and the danger of snakes or creatures of prey. He made his way quickly forward, slashing through the undergrowth with the
parang
as Brokentooth had done on the journey into the camp so long ago.

At first the route ran easily along the stream, but soon he came to the first marked tree and knew he must turn into thicker jungle. Although he could make out the previous path hacked out by the food carriers, the jungle had already grown back and he needed to use the
parang
. Progress was slow for he was unsure of the direction, and kept consulting the compass; once he doubled back, fearing he had made a mistake, once the way was impassable and he retraced his steps to find a new path. Soon the water in his bottle was almost finished, and he had to admit he was lost. The hoots of monkeys as they swung from branch to branch in the trees above, the strange grunts and roars of invisible animals, and the shriek of birds now made him nervous. The light was fading. He sat down on a tree stump to reassess his situation, but jumped up in terror when he heard the crack of branches underfoot and a slashing and crashing some distance away. Then, to his relief there were voices and he hurried forward, hoping to see a group of tribal people who would take him to a nearby village. Instead, he found himself face to face with Brokentooth and others from the camp.

Sweating and panting he was eventually flung down before Wee Jack. It was almost dark, fires were lit in the camp and there was the smell of the usual unappetising meal being cooked, of stale boiled rice, like the perfume of old socks.

‘Traitor!' Wee Jack yelled, and gave him a vicious kick on the thigh.

‘I was lost. I was hunting as usual.' Howard struggled to get to his knees.

‘Hunting? With rice and a compass and a torch stolen from my office? Mad Imperialist, running dog, traitor!' Wee Jack yelled again, his frenzied shouts bringing on a bout of coughing.

‘Rabid dogs who betray the party must be exterminated.' Wee Jack bent over Howard, coughing and shouting and showering him with spittle. Howard cringed, his heart beating fast.

‘Vulture; living on our body, drinking our blood, hiding your claws from those who feed you. You think you'll fly away and bring those Japanese monkeys to our door? We'll show you what happens to the
Imperialist running dogs of capitalism.' Wee Jack's voice swung above him, unhinged by anger.

As Wee Jack waited, flexing a long bamboo cane, Howard's hands were tied and he braced himself for the first stinging blow on his back, biting his lips to make no sound as the cane came down upon him, again and again. At last it was over and he lay, eyes closed, on the ground before Wee Jack, his back raw. Wee Jack gave an order and an old rice sack was pulled roughly over his head. He was dragged to his feet and forced to walk forward, stumbling blindly about, falling once and hauled to his feet again. Eventually, he was shoved into a hut and his feet were bound like his hands.

The sack over his head was impregnated with rice dust that settled drily in his mouth and nose and smarted in his eyes, but he had no way to push it away. His back was fiery with pain and he lay as best he could on his side or stomach. No water or food was given to him. Night came down and his bladder was full and he shouted to be taken to the latrine. At last someone came and his feet and ankles were briefly untied, but the sack remained on his head. He was guided to balance on two planks, to crouch over the stinking pit of excrement. Afterwards he was bound again, the sack was removed, and he was thrown back for the night into the hut.

Exhausted, he dozed, the discomfort extreme, hands numb beneath the rope and his back sore and bloodied. The screech of a night bird came to him and he could not brush away the mosquitoes that settled upon him, drawn in swarms by his blood. Without water his tongue was dry and swollen; each time he shut his eyes fear pumped through him. He began to shiver and wondered if a fresh bout of malaria had caught him. The ache knifed through his head, he was sure his skull would burst and that before morning he would be dead.