The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy (76 page)

‘Oh, oh, oh, you kill me!' Margey struggled furiously in my grip. ‘She take all my men, that's all why I hate that poxy whore. What she got that's so good poor Margey don't have, I like to know? Every time, every time, Katie Chae make poor Margey disgrace. Margey real good girl and be faithful to her Horry, yet this terrible Katie Chae she take him away so easy in one day, just one lousy day, and charge too high price, I bet.'

When I set her down, she covered her face and wailed. Now the self-pity act. Intuitively, I saw what would follow: the cuddles, the kisses, the making up, the unbidden promises to take her with me to Singapore, to England, the offers of marriage. I knew my own weakness in that respect. Bringing up my hand, I gave her a wallop on her shapely little bum.

She let out a marvellous yell of rage. Once started, it sounded as if it would never stop. Heads popped up over the wall and popped down again while Margey was still in no more than mid-yell. She shook her head, letting her dark hair scatter across her face, while she waved her fists at my nose.

‘You dare hit China girl, you smelling rapist dog! Oh, oh, oh, may the gods see this bad hit and pass judgement to cut off your piss-cock, you bastard man! Ged out of here, out, out, out, away, murderer, never speak me once more time again!'

Another scream, decibels flying. I decided that was it. Turning to flee, I struck my head on the lintel of the door. Wasps wheeled about me bearing blood-like gobbets of jelly. The pause gave her time enough to snatch up the
bucket of dirty water. With aim and energy born of fury, she flung it. Even as I reeled from contact with the doorway, striking at stars and wasps, I got the works in the nape of my neck. I blundered through the establishment, scattering water over cowering Brastagi relations, barging past Fat, running for safety, yelling for help.

‘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.