The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy (69 page)

I estimated that de Zwaan would aim for the nearest beast. I marked out the second in line, but was too experienced to aim before necessary; in the tropics, sweat and heat blur a marksman's sight almost at once.

The croc was perhaps twice the length of a man. It was hard to judge size from where we crouched. Staring at it across a decreasing stretch of water, in which the sunlit banana trees and hut were darkly reflected, I saw its eyes open. My grip on the carbine tightened. The croc's eyes were yellow like a cat's, the colour of fresh-fallen jungle leaves.

We were gliding, not directly at the bank, but tangentially, so that – I presumed – we would not be directly in their path if they launched themselves into the water.

Birds hopped about the crocodiles, perching cheekily on their long skulls. The distance between us and them
narrowed still further. Flies buzzed. The mud gave off a sickly sweet stench like dying hyacinths.

Jan fired. The surprise of it paralysed me. ‘Now!' yelled Sontrop. I was immobilised.

The crocs were already on the move. I fired at them at random, twice. Sontrop and Nieuwenhuis both stood up in the boat and blazed away. Full of excitement and some fury at myself, I took careful aim. My sights followed the second reptile as he scuttled down his stretch of shore. I fired, carrying through the movement. I hit him just behind his right eye as he struck the water. He jerked upwards, then disappeared beneath the surface.

A terrible thrashing took place. More than one croc had been hit. The water churned madly, blood and leaves being thrown up parabolically, in the path of lashing tails. On the mudflat, one croc lay unmoving.

The racket of our shooting filled the whole world. Birds and waterfowl rose up everywhere, screaming in protest, wheeling about and breaking free into the upper air beyond the trees, even before the last reverberations of our fire had rattled into the distance.

Jan was standing up calling in excitement, hugging Ernst. Hendrick had the steering wheel. He started the engine, cut it again, and we glided in. The bottom of the launch bumped against mud. We all jumped ashore. I got a boot full of cold black ooze. Ahead stood the hut, utterly deserted. A patch of maize grew by its broken steps. A large crab scuttled away and sank under the water, bubbling.

Putting his carbine to the unmoving croc's skull, Jan squeezed the trigger. The reptile gave an enormous heave and lay still. I was amazed to find myself so close to the creature. Hendrick unwound his rope and started to secure the beast behind its front legs.

‘Do we tow it?' I asked.

‘No. Other crocs eat him. Put him in the boat with us.'

As we tied it up, I looked across the black waters behind us, listening to their endless slurp among the mangroves. The surface was still. Silence returned.

With some effort, we heaved the poor bloody thing, broken skull and all, into the boat. It lay belly upwards. We sat on it, and Jan passed round a flask of genever from which we all swigged heartily, grinning at each other in triumph.

Hendrick clapped me on the back. ‘Good,' he said. ‘Good fun!'

‘Great,' I said. I laughed, feeling my heart bound in my chest.

We were wet and filthy. The crocodile was covered with mud, and so was the old grey boat. Jan went over to the engine, starting it as Hendrick and I jumped out and pushed the bow free of the mud-spit. Once we were aboard again, the boat made a wide curve and started back among the mangroves. The island with its derelict hut fell away behind.

Birds were settling down in the tops of the trees, already forgetting the excitement. One bird swooped in low and flew close by the launch, sometimes darting among the arched mangrove roots in its pursuit of us; it was grey above and white below – I caught the reflection of its breast in the water. It homed in on the scent of death and would not be deflected.

In my carcass, triumph burned. I had been initiated into a new mystery of Sumatran life. For a moment, I considered some of the consequences of my act. It was Saturday morning, and Margey would wonder where I was. I had, too, been missing from lines overnight, and was therefore guilty of a chargeable offence. I dismissed these considerations. I could make things right with Margey – she'd be proud of me – and Jhamboo Singh would see that I got into no trouble; after all, I had leverage on him. Thus reassuring myself, I turned my attention to the satisfactions of the present.

The sun broke through on the dark water, the mangroves cleared, the river banks became clearly defined. Soon, all too soon, the go-down and the jetty with the sunken ship showed ahead. We floated in to the jetty. There was no sign of Iwa. Sontrop jumped out and moored the launch.

Silence reigned. Beyond the go-down, jungle grew, surrounding us with a creepy privacy. The superstructure of
the sunken river-boat, including the wheelhouse, was above water. Tufts of foliage sprouted on the blistered deck. The wreck added a sense of ruination in which my heart perversely exalted as we dragged the crocodile ashore. The kite-hawk which had followed us alighted on the funnel of the sunken vessel.

Sontrop drew out his
parang
and started to slice up the belly of the crocodile. Grey matter and red intestine bulged from the widening slit.

‘We must gut it to carry it,' he said, looking up. ‘Fetch Iwa from the go-down. The old boy has gone to sleep – he will do this work. We must not wait about.'

Slinging my carbine over my shoulder, I walked briskly up to the concrete building. A sliding metal cargo door on one side of the building was open a few inches. I tried to budge it further, but it would not move. The metal almost burnt my flesh. Squeezing through, I found myself in near dark until my vision adjusted. Something slithered away from me, and I was immediately alert for snakes. I once encountered a cobra face-to-face in Padang, and hoped never to repeat the experience.

‘Iwa!' I realised I had shouted in a whisper. Now I saw better, I moved forward with more confidence. The internal space of the warehouse was empty, except for offices and a
WC
in one corner, and some wooden crates piled in the centre of the area. The crates looked as if they had been standing there for years. Across one of them I saw an incongruous name stencilled:
MANCHESTER.

I crossed to the lavatory, calling Iwa's name again, and kicked the door open. Inside was a Chinese-style shitter and a wash-basin. Both were clogged with shit, Ancient shit, too old to attract many flies. I turned away and, as I turned, a movement caught my eye.

A soldier of the
TRI
stood in the doorway, levelling a sten at me.

He was without features, seen as a silhouette in the narrow rectangle of light.

He shouted a command, jerking the snout of his gun for emphasis.

Although I did not understand what he said, the message came across. I could jump into the office behind me, but the flimsy door offered no protection from bullets. The heavy Manchester crates offered better cover. They were too far away. I visualised myself diving for shelter behind them while a stream of bullets tore into my body. The image froze me. The moment for action slipped away.

The extremist took a couple of steps closer and was no longer merely a silhouette. His finger was curled round that well-known crude trigger which is a vital part of a sten. I slid my carbine off my shoulder and let it clatter to the floor.

He planted himself by the crates. He was a slender man with a hawkish face, no older than I. We looked at each other. A tension in his attitude told me he would fire if I did anything except stand still. I stood still.

He shouted another order.

‘I'm English,
orang Ingris.
No understand.
Tida mengerti.
' I pointed to my shoulder flashes, to the div sign of the tiger coming out of the black triangle. ‘Look,
Ingris.
'

Not that I imagined that he would have any affection for the English as such, but it gave him something to think about. I just didn't want any member of the Merdeka squad to imagine that I was Dutch.

He made no reply. Sontrop and his pals, I imagined, were still skinning the croc down by the water's edge. My throat was dry. I did not cry out to warn them.

The extremist kept me covered without moving. Filled with the blood-lust that whites imagined overtook all Malays, or just stupid?

‘
Tuan Ingris?
'

Thank God. Just stupid. And respectful.

I nodded. ‘Yes,
Ingris.
London. You speak
Ingris?
'

He just stood there, pointing the sten inflexibly. And listening.

I listened.

Footsteps were approaching from the direction of the wharf. It must be the Dutchmen. As soon as this bugger took his eyes off me to look round, I would jump him. I still had my revolver, but a quick Commando chop on the correct vertebra, right up under the occipital bone, should do him most good where it was needed most.

An Indonesian officer arrived in the go-down. Slick operation. In, back to wall, Jap machine-pistol aimed at all and sundry. Not a man to muck about.

He took in the situation at once, eyed the carbine on the floor between me and his man, barked an order. The sten man came forward, collected the carbine, backed out of harm's way with it. I stood where I was.

The officer was solidly built with a heavy piggy face and blue jowls. A scar led down one cheek and puckered the corner of his mouth, giving him a quirky expression. It looked like a fresh scar. He had the red and white shoulder flashes of the
TRI
, and the two pips of a subedar or first lieutenant. There were rings on two of the fingers of the hand that held the grip of his weapon.

He moved round so as to command the door. In marched Sontrop, de Zwaan, and Nieuwenhuis, clutching the tops of their trousers. Two armed
TRI
soldiers hustled them in.

When he spotted me, Ernst Sontrop gave a ghastly smile and said, ‘Apologies for this misfortune, Horatio. Bandits generally take Saturday off.'

The lieutenant barked at him to be quiet.

The Netherlanders were made to line up against the rear wall of the warehouse. Their trouser-belts had been removed, so that they had to hold their trousers up. Their carbines and ammunition belts had also gone, and were now draped over the shoulders of their two guards. De Zwaan was still wearing his Jap aviator's helmet.

I saw that the two guards were excited by their capture. The lieutenant spoke soothingly to them. They looked pretty nasty chaps.

They spent some time making my pals line up properly, caps of boots and foreheads against the wall. I watched
for the moment to go for my gun, but the sten remained pointing unwaveringly at my belt buckle. I could only stare helplessly at three sweaty backs and the weapons that covered them.

At last they were arranged according to the lieutenant's satisfaction. The sten-gunner said something to him, at which he turned the full power of his attention on me. He came forward, standing with legs apart and fists on hips, surveying me. An ugly and aggressive sod. His scar went white when he spoke.

‘You are Ingrish? No from Netherlands?'

I pointed to my shoulder flashes. ‘See these? 26 Div. English. London. Churchill.'

‘Make your gun down on ground. Be very care.' He pointed to the floor.

Unbuttoning the holster flap, I dropped the revolver at my feet. He motioned me angrily to kick it across to him, which I did. He ignored it.

‘Where are you stay at Medan?'

An unbidden vision of Jackie Tertis swinging a golf club flashed across my mind. I saw the view of his torture house as glimpsed from my window in the billet. I thought of the fate of the Indonesians who had fallen into his hands. The thought occurred to me that it was the Japs who set the fashion for all this cruelty. Now it was going to be my turn. For the first time, I was really afraid, afraid all over and all through. The fear expressed itself as severe chill of skin and internal organs. My bladder and bowels felt as if they were about to slip from their moorings. Nobody could ever want the Tertis treatment.

I felt my lips tremble as I answered, evasively, ‘Off the Serdenweg.'

‘Serdenweg.' He studied me, keeping his machine-pistol ready. Time inside the go-down had solidified. ‘Show to me your pass.'

I groped in my upper left-hand jacket pocket and produced my battered old brown paybook. When I leaned forward to give it to him, he took it without removing his gaze
from my eyes, almost as if he hoped to hypnotise me. Then he looked down at the book, riffling its pages one-handed. I drew breath, looking round in search of help. Nothing there encouraged me. The Dutch stood motionless facing the wall, holding up their trousers. The two
TRI
soldiers guarded them. My pal with the sten now stood in the doorway, where he had a good view of all of us, as well as keeping an eye on outside. No sound came from there. Inside, bluebottles buzzed endlessly under the asbestos roof.

The lieutenant finished his inspection of my paybook and my photograph. He shut it and handed it back.

As I put it away, he said contemptuously, ‘You good friend all Netherlands men.'

‘We were hunting crocodiles. Not military operation.'

The bastard still looked me over, his eyes bulging.

‘You speak Netherlands language?'

‘No.'

‘What your name?'

‘Horatio Stubbs. Sergeant. As written in paybook.'

‘Where you are borned?'

I named the East Midlands town written in my paybook. He stood there. I was aware that our fates were being decided. Jan de Zwaan started to call something in Malay. He was kicked viciously in the thigh, and fell silent with a grunt.

The officer ran a hand along the line of his jaw. The peel of stubble against his palm was audible. Then he came to a decision.

He pointed to the office door behind me.

‘You go in
opis.
'

‘Look, I'm going back to England next week. My friends are going back to the Netherlands on the
Van Heutsz
this afternoon. Okay? Let us go. We are all leaving Sumatra as soon as possible. Then it will be your island. Okay?'