House of Trembling Leaves, The (33 page)

Before the planned ambush the entire company waded into the Tengi River up to their chins to rid themselves of the reek of sweat and cigarettes. Stripped to the waist the men scrubbed themselves hastily, quietly, conscious of the hovering ever-hungry mosquitoes.

Unlike them, the British patrols were noisy, stumbling through the wilderness like buffaloes. The sound of a branch snapping could be heard over a hundred yards away and Bong claimed he could smell a Welsh Borderer's hair oil and mint-flavoured chewing gum a mile off.

Mabel washed the jungle grit from her eyes and ears.

‘‘Quick-quick-quick,'' Bong encouraged. ‘‘Pythons may be in the water. One minute you're swimming, next minute they grab you and pull you away.'' Of course, everyone knew he was exaggerating, but they also knew that pythons could stay submerged for almost half an hour.

Coincidentally, as he was saying this, a snake emerged from the opposite bank and skimmed along the top of the river towards Mabel. She watched it moving; a thick, black snake that seemed as comfortable on water as it did on dry land. It was a large cobra and it was not the least bit afraid of people. When it got within ten feet of her it stopped and locked eyes with Mabel. She caught her breath. Anyone who knew her could read the fear on her face by the way her nostrils flared.

Bong told her to move back slowly, away from the water, to not turn around. The cobra swished away, unfurling like a whip.

Shortly afterwards, as everyone dried off and two or three soldiers were sent in search of slugs to eat in the prickly grass, Bong went through the strategy one more time. Under his direction they were going to surprise a convoy of British soldiers with what he liked to call ‘the Venus flytrap'.

Malay independence might have been only days away, but the Malayan Emergency was far from being lifted. The continual conflict between Commonwealth troops and the Malayan National Liberation Army (MNLA) had lasted since 1948, nine long years. There had been thousands of casualties, including the high-profile murder of the British High Commissioner, Sir Henry Gurney. The MNLA not only wanted the British out, they wanted Communist rule.

From the way Bong's shoulders were held, stiffly squared, and the charged atmosphere around him, Mabel could tell that he meant business. Standing at the back of the group, she listened to his instructions as they rehearsed their plan.

She was exhausted from the endless months spent in the jungle. Emaciated, her arms and legs punctured with ulcers and insect bites, her uniform torn to shreds. The pallor on her face had turned grey.

She loathed these barbaric surprise sorties – she didn't mind derailing mail trains or slashing rubber crops and it was all very well defending a communist camp from British patrols but watching men being gunned down left a dry sickness in her stomach. Nevertheless Bong was adamant that they had to make a preemptive attack.
Dyaks
, headhunting trackers from Borneo, were assisting the Security Forces. Each day a unit of South Wales Borderers, led by tattooed tribesmen with four-foot blowpipes, was gaining ground on them. Earlier a local villager informed Bong that he'd seen these
Dyaks
, clad in only loincloths and with tigers' teeth in their ears, about six miles to the east. He said they resembled savages and carried dried human heads on the ends of poles, the eye sockets stuffed with seashells.

Bong said they needed to make a show of strength. Mabel was going to stick her hand up and ask if this was going to be like what the Americans called a turkey shoot, but controlled herself at the last second. She had once grilled him on whether he ever felt for the men that he killed. He considered the question. ‘‘Of course I do. But any empathy I might feel is neutralized by my love for the Party.''

They burrowed into the heart of the jungle. Hundreds of photographs of smiling, well-fed, surrendered Communists lay strewn across the forest floor and in the treetops. Mabel picked up one of the thousands of propaganda leaflets air dropped from the sky into the jungle each day. She read the words:
We understand what you have done is for the Revolution. But you are a human being and we all make mistakes. Surrender and all will be forgiven. Surrender and you will be treated well.

The undergrowth swam with oily mud.

The soles of Mabel's shoes often got sucked by the clay. The effort of lifting each leg burned the muscles in her legs. Eventually her feet became saturated and she felt the wet earth ooze between her toes. ‘‘Out of the lion's den, into the lion,'' she whispered to herself, letting her gaze wander over the rainbow of tropical greens. ‘‘It's like an endless road through hell.'' All the while the team kept their heads down, focused, mud in nostrils, aware of the snakes and other hazards all around. Mabel repeatedly snagged her shoulder bag on thorny vines. Sweat stung her eyes. Trailing thorns pulled on her clothes, tearing them further, and the deeper they crept through the belly of the
ulu
the more her hair got snagged on ropes of dangling vines.

Finally, dropping her head, exhausted, she had to stop.

She made a noise to attract Bong. ‘‘
Psst!
''

He turned.

‘‘What is it?''

She gestured for him to approach her. ‘‘I need to pee.''

He shook his head no.

‘‘Serious! I need to pee!''

Behind his round glasses, Bong blinked his eyes. Mabel hopped from foot to foot like a gecko on hot cement.

‘‘If I piss my pants, the whole jungle will smell it and come running!''

He made a sign to the others with his hands and they all dropped into a crouch. ‘‘Follow me,'' he growled.

He led her away from the men into a space where elephants, feasting on palm trees, had torn open a clearing. As they walked she took his hand. Brown dirt and gun grease under his fingernails. She realized that, at the prospect of being alone with Bong, she was getting aroused. Finding a nook where she could relieve herself she asked, ‘‘Are you going to watch me?''

‘‘Of course.'' He was grinning like a schoolboy.

‘‘So you're a maximum crazy pervert too.''

Bong stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes.

‘‘Stop it!'' she shushed, trying to suppress her giggles. To her delight Bong kept pulling silly faces. In one fluid movement Mabel yanked down her overalls and squatted, laughing and peeing in little squirts.

Sat on her haunches she could see nothing of the sky when she looked up. The roof of the world was a thatch of vegetation. The foliage was so green and thick that it left a malachite scorch mark on the back of her eyelids whenever she blinked. There were no signs that anyone had ever been here before. Only rarely did light stream in through a hole; a thin ray of sunburst through dagger-shaped leaves. She picked a leaf off a tree and curled it to make a whistle. Then, remembering the need for silence, she unfurled it and dabbed the spot between her legs.

An hour later, the whole party emerged out of the swollen mass of vegetation. Pushing through, they crept out of the belly of the forest, out of the skyless canopy. In the clearing they could see the main road about a half-mile away; but first they had to navigate a gorge. The drop was steep, at least thirty feet. Mabel, using the aerial roots of a strangler fig tree to gain purchase and grip, slid down on her bottom, spilling into the muddy chasm below.

Bunched into groups of four, spread twenty metres apart, watching the road through binoculars, the predatory wait began. In the clearing wet leaves glistened in the sunlight. Bong, hunched behind an uprooted tree, glared into the low horizon with one eye closed, like a sharpshooter on a shooting range. Mabel wondered if she would die today, if Bong might. Her face muscles and her limbs hardened; even the air seemed to blur and stiffen, making things sway around her. The waiting made her breathless, flared her nostrils.

 

An hour went by. Mabel was daydreaming, staring at a rhinoceros hornbill feasting high up in a tropical rambutan tree, admiring its beauty, when the first crackle rang out.

‘‘Let fly! Right flank! Right flank!''

The scatter of gunfire threw foliage to the forest floor, showering the air with splintered leaves.

Mabel ducked her head and covered her ears with her hands. The ground pinged and zipped with ricocheting bullets. Boots thumped the earth all about her. ‘‘Grenades!'' Bong cried, firing his rifle from the hip, recoiling with each shot. ‘‘Get the grenades off! Come on! Pour it on them!''

Amid the shrieking monkeys, a Sten gun opened up, ripping through the vegetation. One of the men to Mabel's left spun round like a top. A wound on his neck appeared as brilliant and red as a bird's-eye chilli. Without hesitating Mabel fetched a long strip of bandage from her bag and applied direct pressure to the hole, feeling the fountain welling through her fingers. ‘‘Leave it to me!'' she shouted. ‘‘Let go!'' Mouth gurgling, tongue sticking out, his hands clawed at his throat; she had to fight him off and pin one of his arms down with her knee. A deep growl came from the depths of his stomach as a dark stain of urine soaked through from in the man's groin.

One after another grenades discharged, clapping the breath out of her. In the corner of her eyes, the armoured car erupted with a
cha-whump
. A tree burst overhead and a branch came swishing down. Grapeshot debris fell from the sky.

‘‘How is he?'' Bong asked, shielding her with his body, firing his gun intermittently.

‘‘Bleeding severely. I cannot tell yet if the airway is obstructed.'' She bent down and listened to his chest, felt his ribs rise and fall with shallow breathing ‘‘Quick, help me get him upright. Take off his cartridge belt.''

‘‘Medic!
Mediiiiiiiiic!
'' A frantic voice screamed in the distance.

‘‘His airway is clear. Bong, keep your hand over this bandage. Press hard. When it's soaked through don't remove it. Just apply these new bandages over the old ones, understand? Just squeeze tight, then bind it. Use this bootstring if you have to. He's going to be all right.''

‘‘Where are you going?''

‘‘Over there.''

‘‘Over there?'' he repeated. A large vein on his head grew pronounced. ‘‘No, stay back!''

‘‘Look, let me do my job!''

She ran as quickly as she could in a crouch. A bullet zinged past her ear like a needle of dark light, thudding into the tree behind. She'd never felt so exposed and unprotected, so full of purpose. A fire was burning in front, plumes of sooty smoke billowing from an armoured car. Five, six, seven men had been belched forth from the twisted husk of metal, their faces blackened, elbows twisted and snapped. Burned as black as soy sauce.

She heard the cry for help again.

A blond British soldier was slumped on the road behind the blazing vehicle, his ruined clothes splashed with black blood.

‘‘Where are you hurt?'' She spoke quietly and assuredly, crouching down beside him.

‘‘Leg and stomach I think.'' He began to shiver violently.

A puncture had opened up in his belly like a mouth, as round and dark as an antique coin. There was also a fist-sized hole in his hip – red on the outside and white sinew and exposed bone within, making Mabel think of a ruptured apple.

She immediately searched for an exit wound. ‘‘Stay with me,'' she said. ‘‘What's your name?''

‘‘Evans, Corporal Johnny Evans.'' His face contorted.

‘‘Keep your eyes focused on me, all right, Johnny Evans? Stay with me! Keep focused!'' She grasped at the two torn ends of material by his hip and ripped them further. Saturated with blood, the wound felt like wet, warm bread. ‘‘Are you still with me, Johnny?''

‘‘I'm afraid.'' The muscles on his neck stood out like blades.

‘‘You needn't be afraid, Johnny,'' she replied, removing scissors from her bag. She cut through his clothes. His guts were opened up like a tin of tomato soup. She pressed her hands flat against his stomach, which kept his insides from spilling out.

‘‘What the hell do you think you're doing?''

She looked up and saw Bong looming over her.

‘‘Saving his life.'' She jabbed a shot of morphine into him.

‘‘You can fucking stop that right now. We don't have enough bandages and morphine as it is.''

She dragged her eyes across his face as a farmer drags his hoe across the soil. ‘‘And you can fucking start acting like a human being for once in your life!''

He tried to wrench her hand from the soldier's abdomen, but Mabel was fired up now. ‘‘Don't you dare!'' she cried and kept her fingers splayed, pressed over the crater with the flat of her hand.

‘‘He's the enemy.''

‘‘For God's sake, shut up and help me! The bullet's lodged deep inside him. His spleen is punctured. I've got to stop the bleeding.''

Bong looked at Evans. His body was shaking but his face looked calm now. ‘‘Do you have a smoke?''

‘‘A what?'' said Bong.

Evans inhaled and exhaled loudly. ‘‘Cigarette.''

‘‘In my pocket,'' Bong said, reaching for his packet. He lit one and placed it between the Welshman's lips.

The ground about them looked as though it had been saturated with wine; Mabel's uniform grew spattered with burgundy. She worked on Evans for several minutes, digging her fingers into him. ‘‘There it is.'' She'd found the slug and tried to gain purchase on it. The wound made a sucking sound as she pulled the bullet from his flesh. ‘‘Keep your eyes focused on me, Johnny Evans!''

When his eyes glazed over, half-closed and unblinking at the twilight, Mabel stiffened, curled her fingers into balls and thumped him hard across the chest.

She worked on him for several minutes, straining to get his heart to work.

Eventually, Bong draped an arm around her shoulders and eased her to her feet.