Look down in mercy, p.9
Look Down in Mercy, page 9
“He’s only got aspirin, and he told me he couldn’t get Crumb to take anything last night. He can’t give him water because of his stomach.”
They reached the casualties, and Tarrant filtered the light from his flashlight through his fingers and shone the beam on Crumb’s face. His eyes were wide open and his jaw sagged; blood had run out of his mouth and clotted on his chin and throat, the blanket was stickily smeared.
“But he’s dead!” Tarrant exclaimed, and was answered by another scream that made Kent’s forehead damp with sweat. Myler tried to struggle into a sitting position, his face gray with pain.
“It’s Rasby. It’s his jaw. Do something to stop him.” Tarrant walked quickly round and Kent followed. He shone the torch in Rasby’s face, the bandages had fallen off, and before Kent could look away he saw that his lower jaw was smashed out of place, his mouth forced open by the swelling, white pieces of bone showing where the bottom teeth should have been. Tarrant knelt by his side and turned to Kent.
“Hold this a moment, sir.” He kept the light shining on Rasby’s face while he passed the flashlight back to Kent. Now he had to look while Tarrant gently slid his arm behind his shoulders and lifted him into a sitting position. Immediately blood and slime oozed from his mouth, and he started struggling with his arms while strange noises came from his throat. Dobson joined them, and he and Tarrant propped Rasby against the base of the pagoda. Now that Dobson had arrived Rasby was quieter, dimly remembering through his agony that Dobson was a medical orderly and expecting that he would stop the pain.
“We can’t do any more here, Tarrant,” Kent said. “Dobson, you stay here and as soon as it’s light boil a little water and do what you can for these two. Make Myler some tea, but don’t go making gallons and giving it to your buddies.” He turned to Myler. “How’s your arm? Is it very painful?”
“Yes, sir, it’s started throbbing, and it’s very swollen.”
“Well, it won’t be long now before you’re both in the lorry and on your way back to the battalion and by midday at the latest you’ll be well on your way back to a proper hospital.” He looked at Rasby again. “Try and stick it for a little longer, it’ll only make it worse if you get worked up.”
He nudged Tarrant with the light, wondering if he would leave it with Dobson, but Tarrant put it quickly away in his haversack. Kent led the way to the far side of the pagoda and leaned against it. A long way off he heard a cock crow and suddenly he was a child again, warm and half asleep in his bed at home, watching the first light gently move in the flowered curtains. He felt a longing for the remembered peace and security and then violently wrenched his mind away. “What shall we do with Crumb, have him for breakfast?”
“I’ll stick to bully if you don’t mind,” Tarrant answered, “I know his medical history. We shall have to bury him, that’s all there is to it.”
“But there’s not time, it’s too risky in the dark, and as soon as it’s light we’re away. Why don’t we pop him in the lorry with the other two, and send four men to act as escort? They can go six miles up the road and then halt; by the time they’ve made tea for everyone and dug a grave we shall be there, we’ve got to breakfast somewhere.”
“That’ll do nicely,” Tarrant answered. “I’ll start loading the lorry as soon as we stand down.” They looked toward the east; the sky seemed to hold a suggestion of light in its darkness and again a cock crowed. High up in one of the bordering trees some leaves rustled. Kent shivered suddenly and drew in his breath.
“Cold, sir?”
Kent laughed without amusement. “No, not cold, someone just walked over Crumb’s grave.”
( 8 )
From the south the leading groups of Japanese came swiftly through the gray light toward the town. The advance scouts marched as quickly as the troops behind, scarcely bothering to watch the sides of the roads for ambushes, knowing that a properly laid ambush would be impossible to detect however hard they strained their eyes. It was easy for them to go forward so quickly and impassively, for them the issue was simple. They could either go forward and perhaps die gloriously, with the absolute certainty of eternal bliss, or not go forward and be even more certain of a swift death and utter disgrace. There were a few to whom the gift of faith in heaven had not been granted and there were some who feared the pain of dying, but they would be ground on the millstone of their own comrades if they allowed those sentiments to show, and with a certainty that made the life of a leading scout seem full of promise.
When it was light enough to see a few yards the Japanese officer got to his feet. He felt numbed with cold and his body ached with tiredness; it was so usual a condition that he no longer thought about it. Soon the vile fishy taste in his mouth would go and he would feel hungry, perhaps they would come across some water once they moved.
He told his senior N.C.O. to bring the men up to the track immediately, in the meantime he walked toward the dark patch on the dusty track that he knew the English soldier was; perhaps there were some more lying dead in the jungle. He drew his revolver from force of habit; he was convinced that there was no one hiding in the jungle, he had listened contemptuously to the cries for help and the noise they had made as they crashed down the slope; if his own men behaved like that he thought that he would commit suicide.
With his foot he rolled Clifton’s stiff body over and searched it, transferring everything of possible interest to his haversack. Then he went on. He found more bloodstains and left the track and pushed his way into the jungle.
When he came back the men had fallen in on the track and bowed as he reached them. He gave his instructions in a low voice and they listened stolidly. When he finished he walked to the head of the line of men and began to pick his way through the jungle toward the ridge.
The group that he led were not picked men nor did they receive any special pay, although their tasks were much more dangerous than those that usually fell to the ordinary Japanese infantry. But even so these groups were envied by the others, it was not only more honorable, but also part of their role was to spread fear by committing atrocities and letting their handiwork be found by the other side. It was exciting and amusing to watch your enemies die bizarrely, and at the same time shocking and horrifying to listen to them begging for mercy on their knees, begging for the incomparable disaster of being taken prisoners.
As far as the Japanese were concerned such men deserved to die, it was blasphemy to call them men, they were lower than dogs or swine.
( 9 )
Both the forward platoon sergeants were called by their sentries while it was still dark, and they crept round their positions waking the men, most of them sunk in the exhausted sleep that comes to those who lie awake until the early hours of the morning. But when they remembered the firing in the night and thought of the march in front of them they forgot their tiredness and the atmosphere was one of relief that the period of waiting was almost over.
The men dressed in a matter of minutes, the majority had only taken off their equipment and slept in their clothes. When they were ready they sat in pairs huddled together with blankets over their shoulders trying to get warm. There was no attempt made to take up firing positions and wait for a possible attack, it hardly seemed worthwhile as they were going to leave so soon, and the sentries would give them plenty of warning if anything should happen. But there was very little talking and only those men farthest away from the platoon sergeants smoked undercover of their blankets or broke wind as loudly as they could.
As soon as the sky in the east was beginning to pale, but while the night was still absolute under the trees, the sentries were called in and the men stood up and collected together in their sections. For a short time there was a confusion of folding blankets and heavy equipment being shrugged on; someone started whispering loudly that he had lost his bayonet, and the men near him halfheartedly shuffled their feet over the ground until it was found. The section commanders made a swift check in the dark and when everyone was accounted for the platoon moved slowly away from its position in single file until they reached the road, then the pace quickened and the last section had to run to catch up, their boots clattering on the metaled surface and their packs thumping up and down on their shoulders.
Sergeant Peters arrived first on the road that ran by the pagoda. The lorry was already being loaded with the company’s office equipment and heavy stores, cases of biscuits and bully beef, and cookhouse paraphernalia. There were some opened bully-beef cases by the side of the lorry. Tarrant called to Peters to load his blankets and draw two tins of bully beef per man.
Kent walked over to Tarrant. “Do you think we can get everything on and the casualties as well?”
“I think so, sir; it’ll be a tight squeeze but we’ll manage somehow. Crumb will be the difficulty.”
Yes, Kent thought, I suppose he will be, and once the two wounded are settled the fatigue party will grumble and pretend there’s no room for Crumb’s body. Until one of them is told to get out and march, then space will appear miraculously.
“Do the best you can,” he said, turning away, “they’ll only have to put up with it for a few minutes, but Crumb’s body goes on that lorry even if none of the fatigue men do. Here’s the other platoon now, I’ll keep them down the road till you’re ready for them.”
After he had halted them he came back to the lorry. The light was growing rapidly, trees and the low-built houses seemed to materialize out of nothing; ghostly half-guessed-at forms were sketching in their own outlines, those in the distance still unrelieved in shades of black but near at hand there was already a wash of palest color under the gray. Kent was impatient to get away, as the darkness went it took with it his feeling of security. He knew it was the most dangerous time of all for them, disorganized and betrayed by the inevitable noises of departure, and he stood near Tarrant and kept looking at his watch, urging the loading party to be quick. It was difficult lifting Rasby onto the back of the lorry but he had drifted into a delirious land of his own, where he forgot to scream, and they had managed to push Crumb’s blanket-covered body along the side of the lorry with his head touching the tailboard and his legs buried beneath a pile of cooking utensils.
Tarrant had put Dobson in charge of the party and he and the driver stood next to Kent while he spread his map on the bonnet of the lorry. The driver was trying to make up his mind whether to tell the truth and admit that he could not read a map or say nothing and rely on Dobson to find the way, but Kent had already decided to give him instructions that were foolproof.
“You needn’t look at the map, driver. Six miles from here there’s a small stream that crosses the road. There’s a rest bungalow this side of the bridge on the left and big clumps of bamboo and scrub on both sides of the road and stream. Pull up undercover as near the bungalow as possible. Dobson, you find a suitable spot in the garden and bury Crumb, you won’t have time to dig a proper grave but see it’s a fair depth and put a little cross up with his name on it. Before you start see the other two men are getting on with the tea, they can use the bungalow cookhouse. Sit next to the driver and take the mileage so that he knows when he’s done six miles.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly a quarter to six now, we shall be there by eight o’clock. Any questions?” Both men shook their heads; for a moment the driver was tempted to ask Kent if he could go straight on to the battalion with the wounded as soon as the fatigue party had been dropped, but he suddenly realized that if he did he would miss his tea and he decided to say nothing.
Kent watched the two men climb into the lorry. The selfstarter ground on for some time, but the engine seemed lifeless, he could see the driver’s hand fiddling with the dashboard and he felt a surge of panic and anger. As he started to move forward the engine came to life, the driver turned his head and smiled at him and he smiled back, trying to hide his anxiety, still shaken by the possibility of what might have happened. He watched it move away and then gather speed, the three men standing up in the back smiled self-consciously in the direction of the company, and one of them waved his hand.
In the front of the lorry the driver turned to Dobson, “That made him jump, if the old cow hadn’t started when she did I’d have had an earful. All these officers are the same, anything go wrong and the nearest bloke cops it.” But he only spoke in order to hear himself talk, and Dobson was looking out of the window at the charred remains of the bazaar and did not bother to answer. Now that it was light he could see smoke still rising from many different parts of the town, dead-looking piles of ash and debris had dribbles of smoke coming from them, waiting for the morning breeze to fan them into life again and carry their seeds of fire. The lorry went slowly along the road trying to avoid the tangles of wire and the occasional shallow bomb craters. A dead bullock lay on its side by the edge of the road; as far as one could see, it was unmarked except for the trickles of blood on its muzzle that the crows had caused by pecking out the eyes. When they were almost clear of the town they passed a large brick-built house that lay back from the road and was almost hidden by trees. Dobson turned his head as they went by; it was an unusually large house for a small town and the bricks lent it a strangely foreign air. He saw two men dart from behind some shrubs and run to the back of the house. He opened his mouth to tell the driver and then stopped; he settled back on the seat and started to watch the speedometer.
By the time they reached the resthouse the sun had risen above the top of the ridge; its warmth was pleasant after the remembrance of the long cold night on the hard ground. The lorry was parked under a low-spreading flamboyant opposite the front of the bungalow and they gathered at the back of the lorry and lit cigarettes before off-loading the tea dixies and carrying Crumb to the back of the deserted garden. One of them offered Myler a lighted cigarette and put it in his mouth. Nobody spoke to Rasby, who lay inert on a pile of blankets, his bandages already grimy from the dust sucked into the back of the lorry.
After the noise of the engine it seemed very quiet; one could just hear the stream ripple beyond a screen of bamboos and areca palms, and every now and then the engine gave out a metallic ting as it cooled. There was one very tall clump of bamboos growing near the water, and the wind was able to move the tops of their plumes. They finished their cigarettes, and Dobson lowered the flap of the lorry; he nodded to one of the men and together they pulled Crumb’s body out and carried it behind the resthouse. There was a small patch of earth near the end of the garden where the Burmese caretaker grew potatoes, and they laid the body by the side, and went back for the pick and shovel.
The cookhouse was joined to the main building by a covered strip of concrete. The whole place was padlocked and deserted, the caretaker had left the night before as soon as the sight of the retreating soldiers had confirmed the bazaar rumors current for almost a week that the Japanese would soon arrive. It would have been better if he had not padlocked the cookhouse, it was very strong, and finally the two cooks burst the door from its hinges.
In the course of half an hour the back of the work was broken. The cooks had made tea for themselves and taken some to the two diggers; now they stood watching them as they shoveled out the hard lumps of earth, sweat running down their faces. The driver had managed to unscrew the padlock on the front door and wandered about the gloomy rooms lit by chinks of mote-flecked sun that slipped through the shutters. The place was bare except for a few rickety pieces of furniture, but he found a tattered copy of Blackwood’s dated July, 1926; he dragged an armchair to the veranda and sat drinking his tea and reading odd paragraphs that caught his eye, his lips forming the words.
He heard a slight noise and casually looked across to his lorry, thinking that one of the wounded men might have dropped something, but the lorry was broadside on and he could see nothing. He went on reading and then something moved into his line of vision. He looked up quickly and only a few yards away were three men in uniform coming toward him, a young man in front carrying a thin revolver. He knew at once they were Japanese, and he got up slowly, glad that he held his rifle in the front of the lorry because he thought that as he was unarmed they would not shoot him. He was dazed by the shock, and all he could feel was bitterness, not against the Japanese but against his own people for allowing this to happen, allowing a lorryload of dead and wounded to go unescorted and be captured.
The officer stood on the bottom step of the veranda and said something to him. The driver shook his head, “No speak Jap,” he said very quietly as though they were in a conspiracy together. They stood for a few seconds looking at each other, and then the officer beckoned him to walk forward. He came down the steps and they prodded him gently in the back and made signs that he should go in front of them. They walked round the bungalow and past the cookhouse toward the group of men at the grave, the two soldiers on either side and the officer a few paces behind. Dobson stared at them uncomprehendingly, wondering for a moment if he was doing wrong by digging in the resthouse garden, thinking that maybe they were civil police.
“What’s up?” he called out.
“I—I don’t know,” the driver answered, “they’re Japs.” There was a moment of frozen silence and then some dry earth pattered into the grave and one of the cooks turned quickly and started to run toward the trees that hid the river. He ran clumsily in a straight line and everyone watched him. It seemed to take a very long time to reach the edge of the trees and then there was a shot and he pitched forward and rolled against the slender trunk of one of the palms. The officer spoke harshly and waved his revolver in the direction of the lorry. They were too dazed to resist, their rifles which lay close at hand were as useless to them as twigs, movement toward them meant death and to die was unthinkable. Burns had died because he had run, they would not run and would live.
